


Out of the East

by Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Series: Gaearon Rhunen [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Boromir Lives, Cultural Differences, F/M, GFY, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-30 04:31:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eleven years after Boromir is thought to have died at Amon Hen, a ship brings an embassy from a land far to the east, and a long, self-imposed exile ends.</p><p>He began as a man with no name, wounded and fevered, in the company of strangers with familiar voices. He regained name and deed as they traveled ever eastward, across lands sere and barren to the inland sea. He regained honor in the protection of an innocent wronged and a defender beyond hope.</p><p>She was Alagosiell, Storm-Daughter of the Eastern Seas, and a woman all but alone in her Seeking as all women are. She saw promise in a fallen warrior, and hope in his willingness to follow her into the unknown. She saw courage in his defense of others, and strength in his refusal to yield to injury or his lack of memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Messengers and Customs

**Author's Note:**

> Note on language: When Sinia is referring to Alagosiell - a female individual - as a Prince, or as Prince Alagosiell, it is because the language which he normally speaks makes no distinction between male and female princes. And while it would be normal in the west for her to be Princess Alagosiell, it is more diplomatic and polite for those who use her title when speaking to her call her Prince rather than Princess.

**9 Fourth Age, September-October  
Pelargir, Harlond, and Minas Tirith**

The ship that comes up from the fog-shrouded mouths of the river is larger than anything the people of Pelargir have seen since the ships of the Corsairs, though they are unlike the dark Umbar ships. Blue and white sails are steadily furled, and the wood of her hull gleams like gold in the pale morning sun. Sailors on her deck can be seen, but none of the familiar sounds accompany them, save the splash of a dropped anchor while the ship still is in the middle of the river, far from the docks.

It is nearly an hour before a small boat is lowered, carrying three men, and rows to the docks where soldiers have been waiting for much of the time, watching the ship to see what they do. At least one small boat does not appear to be an invasion, and Eärdor relaxes a little, with the hope that whoever the people aboard are, they're at least not intending to attack the city.

Only one of the men steps out of the boat when it comes to dock, the other two remaining quiet in the boat - one tossing a rope over a bollard with a swift and easy movement, cinching it tight - for their passenger.

A passenger who is as tall as any Gondorian, dressed in robes a deeper blue than the stripes on the sails and with the sheen of silk. The color is only broken by a badge upon his breast, a single silver star over black mountains, which Eärdor does not recognize. The man looks over those assembled for a moment, before fixing his gaze on Eärdor.

"I am sent to secure permission from the High King of the West for an embassy from Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen of Gaearon Rhûnen to approach the White City of Gondor." He speaks with great care in Westron, as if it is a language he has little practice in, and Eärdor can no more place his accent than he can the badge, the ship, or even the style of the robes - though the last do appear vaguely as if they might come from the east.

He frowns, watching the messenger in return, wondering what had made an utterly unfamiliar monarch chose to send an ambassador to Gondor. "It will take some time for a messenger to travel to Minas Tirith to deliver your message and return with an answer." It would take more time if he didn't already have someone waiting to be sent to Minas Tirith as soon as they knew what the ship was about.

"I shall wait aboard the Daerrem, then, until the return of your messenger. If you would please to signal us when that is done, I shall return and hear that message." The man bows his head, though almost too slightly to be called more than a nod.

"You can't remain anchored in the middle of the Anduin - there are empty berths here, or along the river to the south." Eärdor absolutely does not want the ship remaining aloof and looming where it's likely to frighten the people of Pelargir, making his job that much more difficult. "Allow me to have one of my men to guide you to a one where you may remain out of the way."

The man smiles politely, but Eärdor's seen enough of diplomats and courtiers before he managed to finagle himself an assignment back to Pelargir to know that the answer is not going to be one he likes. "No. We require no assistance, and no one may step aboard the Daerrem who is not a subject of Their Most Gracious Majesties."

He turns away, stepping carefully into the boat before he speaks again. "We shall remove to the south beyond the wharves of your city to await your answer, that you may not be alarmed. You may send a boat to tell us of a messenger, but an attempt to board the Daerrem will be met unkindly."

Eärdor frowns, frustrated by dealing with the sort of polite stubbornness that refuses to acknowledge the everyday, that he'd thought he had left behind in Minas Tirith. That it's part of dealing with a complete unknown makes it worse. "By what name should we call you, that we know who the message is for when it returns?"

The little boat is already beginning to drift from the dock, the sailors dipping their oars in to begin to pull it back to their ship.

"I am only the messenger. Any message may be returned without address to the Daerrem, and it shall be acknowledged." The man held Eärdor's gaze steadily as the boat is rowed back to the ship, turning away only when a ladder is dropped for him to board his ship once more.

* * *

Aragorn sends the messenger from Pelargir to rest while he looks over to meet Faramir's gaze, both of them curious about who it is that has come to call. Searching the Archives is a task he can leave to his Steward - should leave to Faramir and the archivists - but it is the decision of a moment to leave by the other chores of kingship aside for a few hours. Even if it does mean enduring the exasperated sighs of his ministers who have to rearrange their own schedules, and the glares of the Master Archivist, who still does not trust Aragorn near her books.

"How far east have you traveled?" Faramir has a map spread out on the table they're using, one copied from an older map that has more details of the east than most, and those still sparse enough. There is nothing on it that explicitly states where the kingdom they're looking for lies, but there is a note that there are 'people of faith' in the furthest east. It is the only thing they've found so far, and the archivist told to assist them is looking among other texts to see if there is anything about the lands to the east.

"As far as the Sea of Rhûn, but there is no kingdom there. Most of the Easterlings do not even remain in one place, though they had routes they kept to." Aragorn is staring at the map with a small frown, wondering at what else might be buried in the archives - the map is one of a few pieces from before the founding of Minas Tirith that still survives in the archive. "I had not thought to travel far enough to see the oceans to the east."

He had felt uneasy in doing so, in part thinking the land there likely as barren of settlements as Rhûn itself, and uncertain of walking in the lands where Men had awakened with the rising of the sun. Not that he had given much thought to the lands directly east of the Orocarni, only the mountains themselves, and the risks he might face there. They are rich in all manner of metal and stone, and he had worried for who might defend them.

Faramir nods, turning to help the archivist as she returns with an armful of books. It will be a long night, sifting through what information there might be, but Aragorn hopes they will find something of use beyond the map. In the end, there is only a brief reference to a piece of jewelry taken from a plundered Easterling camp - blue and black enameled silver with a star over mountains, made into a cloak pin the person inventorying the treasure assumed was for a lady's cloak.

It is too little information to allow the requested embassy, but perhaps one person - the messenger who'd first made the request - could be allowed, so Aragorn could learn more. Although he can already hear the complaints from the captain of his guard, the ministers who will be delayed - and Faramir, though his Steward is watching him with an expression that says better than words he knows what Aragorn is thinking, and does not think it the brightest idea.

"Send word to Pelargir for the messenger to come to Minas Tirith. I need to know more before I can allow the desired embassy."

* * *

Sinia watches the captain on the docks as the boat is rowed out from the Daerrem once more, glad to have the chance to return to land, even if it's only for long enough to travel to the White City and return once his task there is accomplished. Hopefully with word that the embassy will be accepted, and that they only need sail up the river, rather than back home already. He will be happy never to have to step foot on such again, though he will go where he was sent, as all did.

He steps off the boat without outward sign of his joy at having something other than the deck of a ship under his feet, aware of but ignoring the bustle behind him as Gwaun and the sailors offload the saddlebags with their supplies. No matter what strange land he is in, there is no need for him to carry his own bags, nor to be without attendant.

"I am sent to provide the High King what information he needs to allow the embassy of my Queen. I may only provide that much before an answer is given that I may carry back to the Daerrem." Sinia watches the captain steadily, waiting with outward patience for the man to lead the way - he hopes for horses, but will tolerate another wretched boat if that is what is offered. A land journey would be longer than a river-borne one, but he doesn't much care about the time, only the greater familiarity of a horse.

The captain nods curtly, gesturing for two of his men to approach Sinia and Gwaun, while he remains where he is. "I must ask if you have any weapons upon your persons, and that you turn them over before we may escort you to Minas Tirith.

A sensible request, even if it is one that Sinia finds amusing - if he were sent to cause harm, he would not have announced himself to openly, nor would he need even the small knife he carries for shaving to do so. He waves Gwaun forward with the packs, so they may be searched for anything these Men of Gondor might deem a threat. There is nothing of importance in them beyond the clothing he will wear, after all, as any message that might be of import is something to be memorized, not let for others to take.

"I carry only the shaving knife in my packs, and no weapon upon my person." These are not, after all, lands where Mordor's influence holds sway, and his messages are of the King of the Mallenrim, rather than the Queen of Gaearon Rhûnen. He is familiar enough with bow and sword, if he had need, but he is glad that he should not need that knowledge here, where the lands have never been beholden to the Shadow.

A frown creases the captain's face, his expression one of distrust that Sinia hopes is merely professional, and not something personal, especially as it does not fade once the packs are checked, and even Sinia's shaving knife confiscated. Even he and Gwaun are searched, though it is more cursory than the search of the packs, which amuses him. Truly wary, these men of the west, yet at the same time willing to trust his honor and his word that he carries no weapon. Perhaps they do not think of an assassin's tools as readily here, and for that, Sinia is also quite glad.

"The boat is at the inner harbor, waiting for you that it might depart for Harlond. There will be horses waiting there." The captain smiles a brief moment, and Sinia wonders if his distaste for being on the water is so clear even to a stranger. He had thought himself better at hiding it than that.

Turning, the captain leads the way, rather than leaving that duty to one of his men, and even after Gwaun and he board, the captain remains on the dock, watching them until the boat enters one of the paths from the inner harbor to the river.

At least it isn't the ocean, though the days on the river are little pleasure, and gladly left behind when they dock at a small port, behind which a massive wall rises. There are horses and guards both waiting, more than Sinia would think are needed to escort a herald and his attendant. It's amusing to see that someone thinks he might go anywhere but where he has stated he intends - it is an honor to him that he is the messenger sent by his Queen, and it would be a grave insult if he were to abandon that post. So he smiles, and ignores the soldiers in favor of looking about at the land they travel through.

The Pelennor are a pale gold with the stubble of their crops, with farmers still out on them, perhaps working the fields to sow winter wheat, if it is warm enough a winter here to do so. Sinia knows they do such in the southern-most lands of Gaearon Rhûnen, but had not yet thought if it were a thing to be done here as well.

At the gates of Minas Tirith, there is a man waiting dressed in black and silver, with a tree and stars embroidered upon his surcoat. Sinia has to control a moment of surprise, though he had known he could easily meet the brother to the Prince of Braigduin, for it was here that the Prince had been born. It is at least one piece of happy news he might bear back to those who wait aboard the Daerrem when he returns.

"Steward Faramir." The leader of these soldiers bows to the man waiting once he's dismounted, the soldiers doing likewise. "This is the messenger from the ship."

Sinia dismounts his own horse with familiar ease, hearing Gwaun doing the same behind him, and dropping from there to his knees, his head no doubt bowed so he does not look upon Prince Faramir's face longer than he already has. He could be allowed to do so here, but Sinia knows his cousin feels himself too far from the direct line to do such a thing, even when the strict rules and protocols of the Queen's court are left far behind.

His own bow is not quite as deep, and he rises easily to face Prince Faramir. It would be a poor herald indeed who did not look upon the monarchs and nobility of the world as if they were his equals, for how else could he be the Voice of his Queen or his King?

"I am Sinia, gracious prince. You honor me by meeting me at the gate."

Prince Faramir studies him for a long moment, his gaze as unsettlingly discerning as King Idhren's, before he smiles slightly, and nods his head in return of Sinia's own greeting. "I would be a poor host if I did not, Sinia. I bit you welcome to Minas Tirith."

"My thanks, gracious prince." Sinia bows again, if not as deeply as his first, and he can see Prince Faramir's bemused smile before the Steward turns, mounting a horse that has been held by a young guard behind him, and leading the way into the city itself. Sinia is glad he will not have to walk up the circles of the city - Prince Randír has described it as best he remembers many a time, and there is nothing akin to it, save perhaps the climb to the Archives in the Orocarni. Not a journey Sinia has made since his youth, nor one he intends to make again until Prince Thavron finishes the road he's working upon.

Gwaun is soon at his elbow again, though he keeps his attention firmly fixed on the ears of his horse, muttering in their own familiar language that he would much rather have had their original escort until he could be properly off to the rooms Sinia would have, rather than being so much in the presence of those of greater birth.

It is all Sinia has a chance to hear before they are through the main gate, and into the noisy chaos that Sinia has seen in every city he's passed into, particularly nearest the gates, where the markets thrive best. It is somewhat strange to see the people smile and wave at Prince Faramir, some even calling out greetings, though, as he has never before been in the presence of royals who might have people so willing to do such a thing.

As they climb higher, though, people are fewer, and Sinia is glad for the quieter streets, despite Prince Faramir falling back to ride next to him, and Gwaun therefore dropping back behind so he would not be made part of any conversation that might occur.

"Where is the kingdom of Gaearon Rhûnen, Sinia?" Prince Faramir is watching him with an expression that is alight with curiosity - perhaps that of a scholar, as Prince Randír remembers him, and perhaps more. Sinia will not easily forget that Prince Faramir likely has the same gifts as King Idhren, and should be treated with the same caution if he does not care to share more than he intends.

"Between the shores of the seas for which it is named, and the Orocarni Mountains to the west, from the ice of the Helegsîr to the rich fields along the Harnduin in the south." There is information about his home that Sinia will not share with any stranger, as he has not rank enough to chose to tell it, but the borders are well known even outside Gaearon Rhûnen. He wonders how it is that Prince Faramir wouldn't know it, but perhaps the wide lands that have long been shadowed were enough to keep the information a secret.

Prince Faramir nods, though his expression changes little, still curious, and now also a bit thoughtful. "How did you know of Gondor?"

"The Prince of Tol Sáid came west in her Seeking, twelve years past. She brought much knowledge of the lands west of the Shadow when she returns, though she did not pass far into these lands." Knowledge that came in a patchwork fashion from those memories Prince Randír recovered from the misty reaches of his mind - and as incomplete as any of the maps they could make from old sketches and information drawn from the spies among the lands that looked to Mordor.

Sinia nearly misses the flash of surprise that crosses Prince Faramir's face, and only catches it from long practice at watching others without staring. He is curious what had caused the surprise, but pushes it aside for now; his unspoken questions will be answered or not by whatever Prince Faramir says, and Sinia cannot risk being seen as rude.

"What was she seeking?" Prince Faramir asks a question that borders on insulting, but is tactful enough when Prince Faramir cannot know to ask that _is_ an insult to a woman of the Mallenrim. Although his curiosity and friendliness bode well for the hopes of the Queen's embassy, his lack of knowledge could be problematic, if the embassy were ought but those it is.

"All I may say of a Seeking is that is a rite of passage for the women of the Mallenrim, and that to ask of it directly would be to insult any of the Princes of Gaearon Rhûnen. They are fierce in their secrecy of this, even from their male relations. If the Prince of Tol Sáid wishes to speak of it, that is her choice, but it is one that only she may make." Sinia smiles briefly to take the potential sting from his words, even though they were spoken evenly and carefully.

"Ah." Prince Faramir falls silent, his expression now more thoughtful than curious as they continue upward, winding back and forth through the streets of the city. He speaks again only once they are through the gate into the sixth circle, and turned back toward the great dike of rock once more. "What may you tell me of the Prince of Tol Sáid?"

"That she is the highest of princes after the Queen, and her heir. Only she has the rank to be sent in embassy to the High King, and in all matters of diplomacy may speak in the Voice of the Queen."

"The Voice of the Queen, not the Voice of the King?" Prince Faramir glances over again, raising an eyebrow in curiosity, without any of the scorn that Sinia might expect in other places he has traveled.

It is a question, indeed, that Sinia has expected, for nowhere he has traveled has he seen women who hold power as the Princes of Gaearon Rhûnen, only men who hold both land and people. Sometimes it makes him wonder how his homeland came about their manner of rule, when all about them are so different - perhaps the influence of the Falathren, but to be certain would require a more detailed study of that history than Sinia has made.

"No Prince of Gaearon Rhûnen would be the Voice of the King, for they have the care of the lands and the ships, and the rule of land and sea to attend to. A Prince of the Mallenrim might be the Voice of the King - indeed, I am such, if a very minor such Prince. For the Princes of the Mallenrim, as the King, have the care of the people and the horses and the means of war, creating the laws that govern how we may conduct war, and taking themselves to the battles of such." Sinia lets a small smile curve his lips briefly, though it's nearly mirthless. He has never much enjoyed being the Voice of the King, when it has been his duty, and he is glad that if any might be such on this journey, it will not be him.

Prince Faramir doesn't respond immediately, though he does study Sinia's face, as if searching for something more than the words Sinia had given him. It is little enough, without a long tale of their history back before the Reckoning of Mathiel - and that history is truly better given by historians who have made proper studies of those long centuries than by Sinia.

"Who, then, would speak for the King, if such were needed?" Prince Faramir's expression is once again more discerning than Sinia finds comfortable.

Sinia takes a breath as the shadow of the tunnel through the dike engulfs them. "The Prince of Braigduin, who is the heir to the King of the Mallenrim, and husband to the Prince of Tol Sáid."

"And this Prince of Braigduin would accompany the Prince of Tol Sáid in her embassy, yes?" Prince Faramir does not need to be terribly perceptive to guess that, but it does not make Sinia any more comfortable. Prince Randír worries, after all, about how his being here might effect the welcome of the embassy, and has forbidden any mention of his birth name until after he and Prince Alagosiell have come to Minas Tirith.

"He is sworn to defend her against all enemies, yes, and he cannot do so if he remains at home." Even if Prince Randír were not, Sinia knows he would not allow Prince Alagosiell to travel alone. He is a good choice of husband for her, and he will be a formidable King when she ascends the throne as Queen. Fierce in his defense of all - even those not of the Mallenrim, so long as they were in need of defense - and always an enemy of the Shadow-loyal.

Prince Faramir nods, and doesn't ask further questions as they continue through the last of the circle, and approach a gate which is more heavily guarded than most through the city. The final gate, then, that would lead them into the Citadel, and marked an end to the long climb up the mountain. Here, though, they dismount, and the horses are left outside the gate, where there is a small stable.

"There are rooms for you to rest after your journey." Prince Faramir picks up conversation again after they've passed through the gate, and come up into an open courtyard with a tree in the center that is unlike any Sinia has seen before. "King Aragorn would ask that you join him for a private dinner, so he can talk in a less formal setting, if you are not too tired from the journey."

A less formal setting also means that there are fewer who might hear the questions asked and those answered, and the king might ask more pointed or probing questions than would be diplomatic in the full view of the court. Something that Sinia can see the wisdom in, though a meal is not the sort of audience he'd expect, even for this. No monarch of the east would have dared to have food near to a messenger from a foreign king.

Bowing his head, he answers quietly, "I would be most honored to dine with the High King at his pleasure, gracious prince."

"Why do you use that form of address?" Prince Faramir has slowed his step slightly as they cross the courtyard, his expression once more openly curious. "It is more traditional to address the Steward as excellency, in Gondor, for though we are of noble blood, the Stewards have not been truly princes."

Sinia is quiet for a long moment, weighing the risks of revealing too much with his answer with the risk of insulting Prince Faramir by not answering the question at all. "Forgive me, your excellency, for the assumption. All servants of the royal house in Gaearon Rhûnen are themselves of royal blood to a certain degree, and as the royal house of Gondor comes from the same origin as that of our own people, I assumed too that you would be of some degree of royal blood."

That, too, Prince Randír had mentioned that the House of Húrin had come from the younger son of a king, and was of royal blood, if far more distant than most who served, is something Sinia cannot mention. Although, from the surprise on Faramir's face, it is possible that here, they do not hold the same traditions, and those servants in the Citadel might not all be of distant royal blood. Minister Golwe will be horrified, and Sinia is not looking forward to dealing with her frustration about such things.

"And you?" Prince Faramir is watching Sinia with both surprise and some consideration.

"I am a most humble and loyal servant of my Queen. No less than a servant of the royal house could be sent as a messenger, especially to the High King." Sinia allows himself a small smile at the continued surprise on Prince Faramir's face, though he doesn't think he startled Prince Faramir as much as it appears. Certainly, he will not cause the High King the same surprise, as no doubt all of this would be relayed to the High King before dinner, as it should be.

Prince Faramir didn't ask any other questions as they entered the Citadel, turning off the first grand corridor into a more understated once, and to a set of rooms that are comfortably appointed, if on the plain side. Suitable for a messenger, and better than many accommodations than Sinia has slept in for his travels in the service of King Idhren. He expects that those that would be set aside for Prince Alagosiell and Prince Randír will be larger and more elaborately appointed.

"My thanks, your excellency, for the rooms." Sinia bows to Prince Faramir as Gwaun hurries past him with their bags, all but scurrying out of sight. "I shall wait upon the pleasure of the High King in the matter of dinner."

Prince Faramir nods in return, and though he says he will return for Sinia when it is time, Sinia expects it will be a true servant who is delegated that task. Certainly it would be proper, and he gives merely a nod of acknowledgement before he closes the door between them. He will have some time to relax, and to find his balance again, before he has to once more deal with these strange Men of the West.

* * *

"I think the mariners of Númenor traveled further than any of the surviving records indicate." Faramir is settled in front of the hearth in Aragorn's study, a goblet of wine left within reach by a servant who'd withdrawn as soon as all three present had been provided wine.

"Sinia is in features and height more akin to a man of Gondor than an Easterling or a Haradrim, despite his manner of dress. There is much of Sindarin in his speech, and I suspect if I had spoken in that language, he may have been more comfortable than with speaking the Common Tongue, though he does speak it quite well." Faramir smiles a bit at some private thought that Aragorn does not inquire about. "The ambassador that he's speaking on behalf of is the heir to their Queen, who is, as much as I can tell, the ruler of their kingdom."

"And their lands?" Aragorn picks up his own goblet, taking a sip to keep himself from asking further questions until Faramir has a chance to answer one. Or asking Glorfindel why the elf is looking more amused than Aragorn thinks he ought, just hearing what Faramir has said. It would prove more frustrating than useful, after all.

"Between the Orocarni and the sea, from the northernmost mountains on the map to the southernmost river." Faramir frowns slightly, looking toward the table where they had the map from the archive laid out - or rather, a copy of the original, since the archivists wouldn't allow anything out of their hands that wasn't such. "Though it is curious that they've laid claims to lands so far north that they call the river that runs through them the Ice River."

It is interesting, but not particularly helpful at the moment. It is the queen who has sent the embassy and Sinia who Aragorn is curious about at the moment. "Did he say anything else of the Queen, and her heir?"

"Not their names, though he did give the heir, at least a proper title. She is the Prince of Tol Sáid, and her husband the Prince of Braigduin."

The lack of distinction between gender is interesting, but not entirely surprising - they would not be the first people who Aragorn had known whose titles made no clear mention of gender.

"It is the Prince of Tol Sáid who is the ambassador - her husband is apparently only here as her escort and protector." Though there's a note of dissatisfaction with that explanation in Faramir's voice and expression. As if it had been implied, but not outright said. "She is the only one who has the rank in their land to be sent on this particular embassy - though Sinia did not say why only the heir would be so."

A question to ask when he joins them for dinner later, or not, as needed. Aragorn is curious himself, but he will see where the conversation as dinner leads. Hopefully it will be more enlightening than frustratingly tantalizing.

"Did he say how they knew of Gondor?" Glorfindel looks curious himself, though there's still that leashed amusement that always precedes his doing something - or not doing something - that will cause Aragorn more frustration than anything else.

"Not outright, though I think the Prince of Braigduin may be a Rohirrim, or a man of Gondor, though I do not know how they might have met one without being known to have been in the West. Sinia said the Prince of Tol Sáid had come west on a 'Seeking', and that he could not elaborate upon that - nor should we ask what that is - and that is how they knew of Gondor." Faramir pauses, taking another sip of his wine. "How they were aware Aragorn is King of Gondor, though, I couldn't be sure, because that was twelve years ago that she came west."

Glorfindel made a small noise of acknowledgement, settling back a little more comfortably in his chair with a thoughtful expression on his face. Aragorn shares a confused look with Faramir before he too settles back in his chair, turning over what information they had now - a start on understanding who they might be allowing into Gondor if he allowed the embassy.

* * *

"You perhaps should have asked Prince Randír more about Gondor than he'd shared." Gwaun is fussing about the exact fall of Sinia's robes as he speaks, frowning at the deep blue fabric as he arranges it. "If, of course, he had known the woman the High King was planning to take to wife."

"Oh?" Sinia raises an eyebrow, wondering if this is why Gwaun had insisted he'd use the formal robes, rather than the less formal tunic and trews that Sinia had been planning for the evening.

"He might not have known the exact relation, but still, I would expect he'd have at least known the woman is an elf." Gwaun smiles a moment as Sinia starts, and taps him hard on the shoulder in reprimand.

Sinia is glad they're speaking the common tongue of home, instead of the Westron of Gondor and her allies. It will make it difficult for those who are undoubtedly listening to tell anyone what the topic of discussion is.

"I expect there's more to her identity than merely her being of the First Born?" Sinia holds still as Gwaun rearranges the folds to make the robes drape more how he intends they do.

"Of course." Gwaun is silent for a moment, teasing Sinia with curiosity before he relents. "She is the niece of Tar-Minyatur, and daughter of the herald of Gil-Galad." Gwaun presses his hand to Sinia's shoulder when Sinia blanches pale under his tan. "At least you remember those tales."

"Is that _all_ you have to frighten me with tonight?" Sinia sometimes is glad for Gwaun's ability to slip among the common servants, and hear things Sinia will not. Today, he's not entirely certain if he is or is not - the information that should have been provided so he could be prepared for this meeting had not been, and only come from Gwaun, who delighted in seeing how much he could annoy his cousin.

"No." Gwaun sounds positively cheerful, and Sinia wonders if allowing him to talk to Prince Randír's attendant during the entirely too long sea-journey had been a good idea. It appears some of Ereg's habits have worn off on the usually more stoic Gwaun. "One of their close advisors, beyond the Prince Faramir - who is Prince of Ithilien, in addition to the High King's steward, you should know - is another of the First Born. Glorfindel."

Sinia thinks he rather prefers the open hostility of the Khagan's court in Khand, or the polite promise of poison from the Kings of Umbar. Either one would be better than being killed by his attendant with unexpected pieces of information.

"You are too cheerful by half." Sinia grimaces at the strained note to his voice, and draws in a deep breath, focusing on the calm he'd learned in the course of his training. He cannot - can never - show those he must face any emotion beyond those that are properly diplomatic, or those that are appropriate to the message he bears from his King or his Queen. "Dare I ask if there are any other surprises that neither the most gracious and illustrious Prince Randír, nor the most excellent Steward Faramir, saw fit to inform me of?"

"None that are relevant at the moment." Gwaun makes a last adjustment to the fabric before reaching for the jewels that are part of the formal robes. "I do expect some of the other gossip I've overheard may be important when we return to the Daerrem, but not tonight."

Sinia sighs, hoping that Gwaun will at least be kind enough to wait until they are back to the Daerrem before he shares whatever else he's learned in the course of the afternoon. It will at least allow Sinia to excuse himself to his cabin to have a quiet attack of nerves, instead of anyone expecting him to be his usual capable self while on the water.

A knock on the door comes just before Gwaun pins the last of the jewels in place, and Sinia waits with rather less patience than usual for Gwaun to make sure everything is properly in place. At least the knock does not come again before he's able to open the door, somewhat surprised to see that Prince Faramir has indeed come to guide him to where the dinner with the High King is to be. It does have the gratifying effect of making Gwaun choke back a yelp, and dart for the inner room, where he doesn't have to be properly deferent, nor does Prince Faramir have to ask why Gwaun is so subservient.

"You do me a great honor, gracious excellency, to guide me to this meal yourself." Sinia bows as he had at their first greeting, watching as Prince Faramir's lips twitch upward into an amused smile for a moment.

"It would be rude if I were to leave it to anyone less." Prince Faramir steps back, and indicates the direction they are going with a tilt of his head. "And as I shall be at dinner as well, it is simple enough a duty."

"Of course." Sinia wonders at the lack of formality to Gondor, though he's beginning to expect something of it. At home, no one would dine with the Queen and King save their closest family. "Are there any others to be present, if that is not rude to inquire after?"

Prince Faramir shakes his head with a brief, puzzled smile. "Her Majesty, Queen Arwen, and my own wife, the Lady Éowyn, both will be there, and the Lord Glorfindel, who is a close friend to the Queen."

Both of those who Gwaun had told him of, and another woman of unknown lineage, though Sinia expects she is likely at least of some noble blood, if not royal. He will have to ask Gwaun if he has heard anything of the Lady Éowyn when he returns to his rooms after the meal.

"My thanks for allowing me that knowledge, gracious excellency." Sinia hopes the paleness of his face earlier has not returned, though the thought of facing not one, but two elves is rather terrifying. Particularly the two who he will meet tonight, with far too little time to prepare himself for the meeting.

Prince Faramir gives him a curious look, but there's no worry in his expression, so Sinia can hope he doesn't look any different than he normally does. It helps, as he follows Prince Faramir into the same grand corridor they'd entered by, and Sinia thinks he has himself well in hand when they stop outside a door with a guard to either side. Prince Faramir knocks before entering, though he doesn't pause long enough between for there to have been an answer from inside.

Sinia follows, and once into the room beyond, and making a mental note of where each of them is, bows deeply before he drops to one knee, where he remains, his eyes on the floor as he speaks. "Your Most Gracious and Noble Majesties, you honor this humble servant with the privilege of dining with you and the Great Slayer of the Balrog."

He can hear someone choking, and someone else muttering in an unfamiliar language that has some similarity to Sindarin, but doesn't move from where he kneels until a hand on his shoulder tugs him back to his feet.

The High King looks disconcerted by Sinia's formality, and his hand doesn't move from Sinia's shoulder for a moment. "You need not bow so deeply, Sinia, not here. Nor give us such effusive titles." He steps back, and Sinia can see those at the table already, other than Prince Faramir - two women, and one tall man that cannot truly be a man, but the elf Glorfindel. "Please, join us."

It is less formal than Sinia had even imagined, and he hesitates, looking between the others already there before he draws out the chair they'd left unclaimed. There is more different here than he'd imagined - more too, than Prince Randír had recalled of this realm. Perhaps it is the difference between Gondor under the rule of the High King and under the rule of Prince Randír's father.

"I am afraid, most gracious King, I am accustomed to a greater degree of ever-present formality about all royalty, whether of my own land, or those to which I am sent. It would not happen that a servant such as myself, no matter how highly ranked, would dine with one of royal blood." He smiles self-deprecatingly, watching as servants appear, bringing a simple meal that is served out among those present. He does not recognize any of the dishes, though he takes care not to decline any, nor the wine offered to accompany the food. "Indeed, I cannot imagine that any would dine with my Queen or King who is not their close kin, and even they do not remain seated at the same table."

Lord Glorfindel snorts, smirking at Sinia's description of what might occur at a royal meal. "I do not recall King Ramnaur being so formal when I met him."

Sinia blinks, glancing at Lord Glorfindel for a moment. "It may well be different in a camp of war, Great Lord, but even there, I have not been given leave to dine with my King. I am only their herald, not their close kin."

There is silence after that brief exchange, making the beginning of the meal awkward, until food and drink began to relax them all. Though Lord Glorfindel gives Sinia every impression of being quite amused by the discomfort the others are feeling, though he had no doubt not been entirely expecting the name Sinia had used to greet him. The tales of the First Age might not be the usual fare of even the greatly educated among the Mallenrim, but Sinia had gone to the Archives to find what stories might remain when Rhawsûl had begun to discuss sending the embassy that waits aboard the Daerrem.

"Faramir tells me that it is the heirs of your Queen and King who have been sent as ambassadors." The High King reaches for his goblet of wine, watching Sinia intently as he waits for an answer, though he has not quite asked a question.

"For a lesser king or ruling prince, those whom the Queen would see as her equals or below her, any envoy of royal blood is permissible - indeed, I myself would be suitable for such a task, though I am merely a son of a second cousin. However, as when the Queens of Gaearon Rhûnen sent ambassadors home to Númenor, only the highest of royal daughters may speak with the same authority as the Queen herself." Sinia pauses to breathe, and take a bite of his meal, though he has found the dishes so far disappointingly bland.

"They'd stopped doing so before the Last Alliance." Lord Glorfindel shrugs when the Queen gives him a mildly annoyed glance. "Elendil and Ramnaur had no knowledge of each other. If his daughter had been in Númenor, I'd expect Ramnaur to at least know _of_ Elendil."

"Our Queen at the time had not even heard about Akallabêth, though word of it returned when those few who survived that terrible time returned home. Now, it is only a story in the Archives, and unknown to most." Sinia spreads his hands with an apologetic smile. "Later experience with the Shadow-loyal has since driven old stories from the minds of all but the scholars who care to study history, and those who must know something of it in their traveling."

"The Shadow-loyal?" Lady Éowyn speaks now, her expression shrewd. "Easterlings and Haradrim?"

"Some of them, yes. Not all of the people of the Great Plain are Shadow-loyal, nor all of those who live in the furthest south of Harad. They care little for such far-off lands as Mordor, and prefer instead to remain loyal to their kings and princes, and trade with our ships, and with the dwarves of the Southern Lands." Sinia meets her gaze steadily, and she nods after a moment, leaving the questions for others for the moment. Taking a sip of his wine, which is more to his taste so far than the food, Sinia waits for the next question.

"If the Prince of Tol Sáid is the ambassador, does the Prince of Braigduin accompany her only because he is her husband, or because he too has a voice in this desired embassy?" The Queen's voice is quiet, though carrying, and Sinia cannot read the accompanying expression.

Taking another sip of wine to give himself room to think before he answers, he watches the Queen carefully. She is an elf, and the tales speak of them being more perceptive than Men - and he cannot risk too much knowledge of Prince Randír becoming known.

"He is sworn to the protection of the Prince of Tol Sáid, above and beyond his role as her husband and as Prince of Braigduin. No matter how safe the lands to which she travels might be, he will not neglect to ensure her safety, even at the expense of his own." Sinia meets the Queens gaze for a long moment, his expression solemn. "If there should be need of the Voice of the King, it would be he who might speak with that authority, but all hope that there is no need for that Voice, even the Prince himself."

Sinia's answer leaves the mood chill and quiet once more, and he permits himself a purely mental sigh. For all that he does not particularly enjoy being the Voice of the King, it is ever the easier task to accomplish. More dangerous, yes, but it is easier to deliver insults and promises of war than it is to negotiate peaceful diplomacy.

"Who else would accompany them, beside yourself?" These are questions more of one who is of a mind to grant the permission that is asked, but it is not yet made explicit.

"If one leaves aside the common servants, soldiers, and the honor guard, there are fourty in their retinue, including myself. There is also the young Prince and her brother, and their servants, which would number thirteen." Sinia is uncertain it had been wise to include the children on this journey, but neither Prince Alagosiell nor Prince Randír would leave them in the safety of Tol Sáid.

"And the honor guard numbers how many?" There is a small amount of concern in Prince Faramir's voice, as Sinia would expect from someone knowing there are foreign soldiers who might come into their lands.

"Twenty, with six of them that may not be left behind." Sinia takes another small sip of wine to keep his throat wet. "If there is an escort provided, or permission for the Daerrem to approach up the river, the rest might remain upon the ship, so they do not worry your people in seeing them."

"There is an empty house in the sixth circle for an embassy house, and rooms enough here for the Prince of Tol Sáid, the Prince of Braigduin, and their children." The Queen smiles, and Sinia tilts his head in acknowledgement that she has the relation correct. "Unless they would prefer to remain in the embassy house, and then we will not say them nay."

Sinia shakes his head slightly, smiling. "The Prince of Tol Sáid would be honored that you would offer her rooms in the Citadel itself, and indeed would prefer to remain close to court that she might carry out her duty as ambassador most effectively. Should, of course, the embassy be welcome."

"They will indeed be welcome," the High King says firmly, and Sinia nods his head in acknowledgement. "And the Daerrem may come up the Anduin to Harlond, with an escort of our own river-boats."

Sinia could hope for no better news to carry back to Prince Alagosiell and Prince Randír, and he smiles as he once again nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorts that connect into this chapter:
> 
> [Soon Enough to Die](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1087851) \- a story of Ramnaur, King of the Mallenrim during the Last Alliance.


	2. Strange Easterlings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alagosiell and Thavron find a lot of dead orcs, and one not-so-dead man, and do their best to make sure the man doesn’t end up actually dead. He wakes briefly, but gives them no name, and is soon asleep again, caught in fever.

**3019 Third Age, February  
Amon Hen, Parth Galen**

Alagosiell breathes shallowly as she picks her way through the forest, thinking it might have been better to stay closer to the river she's been following for the last several days. Even fairly freshly dead, from the looks of the corpses, orcs stink more than anything else she's encountered in this journey, and she hopes they are all truly dead. Even so, if her mother knew just where she is, Alagosiell has little doubt Rhawsûl would find a way to drag her home, Seeking or no.

A hiss behind her reminds her she isn't the only one who'd have trouble if her mother knew where she is - and Thavron would find more trouble than she. Alagosiell doesn't particularly like the idea of her brother being drowned, but she likes less the idea of returning without who she's looking for. If she can just find him, and recognize him.

"I am not a dog to be called, Thavron," she whispers, her voice harsh with annoyance that's more at the situation than him. "And I do not think the dead will rise up to slay you if you speak. Not even orcs."

"The only thing I fear right now is naneth's wrath if I don't bring you home in one piece, and with a husband - or potential husband - in tow." Thavron creeps closer to her, his grip on his knife white-knuckled as he eyes the corpses they'd started to find as they'd entered the thinner bits of forest they're in. "And I don't think you'll find one here."

"Then we continue making our way south. There have to be people still in the west somewhere, or orcs wouldn't be here." At least, she hopes they wouldn't be, because that would mean her Seeking is going very wrong, and it might be as well not to return from it. But she's certain this is the river, and that somewhere along it is who she's looking for.

Thavron snorts, and shakes his head at her as he falls back a little once again, watching the forest around them so he can keep her as safe as possible. He's not the best of choices for a guardian, but Medlin isn't quite old enough to serve the purpose, and Thavron is still, until she marries, the heir to their father, and bound to protect her anyway. Even if he is better suited as an architect than a soldier.

She freezes - and can see Thavron doing the same out of the corner of her eye - when a quiet noise reaches her ears. It might have been a moan, but she can't be certain with the sound so faint. Meeting Thavron's eyes, Alagosiell tilts her head to the left, moving right herself to start picking her way through the trees once more, careful to study every corpse she could see, and shove those piled stop others away so she can check the ones underneath.

The piping notes of a sand-walker draw her attention to where Thavron has been searching slightly down-slope, and she makes her way to him as quickly as she can without tripping over corpses or weapons.

"I don't think he's quite dead."

Thavron has uncovered the body of a man, pale as a corpse, and sporting black arrows in shoulder and gut. It's an eerie sight, to be confronted by the reality of what has only been a vague vision before.

"He was under this garbage, so I'm not surprised he was left for dead, if his company were pursuing more of these creatures."

Alagosiell crouches next to the man, hoping her Seeking hasn't come to a crashing halt with a corpse, rather than a living man. She lifts a hand toward his mouth, letting out a soft sigh of relief when she feels a faint warmth of exhaled breath on the back of it. The man should have been dead, wounded and buried under the weight of a corpse - even one of their own Mallenrim would have been. "Some grace of the Valar, then, that he isn't dead." She hesitates, studying him for a long moment to fix his features in her mind. "We should find some way to move him down to the river. It will be easier to tend his wounds there."

Giving her an incredulous look, Thavron holds up his knife. "Would it not be better to give him mercy, sister of mine?"

The sort of swift death they'd grant one of their own found like this would be a mercy over a slow and lingering death, but Alagosiell cannot do that, and shakes her head at Thavron's offer.

"No. We will help him. If his company returns, it would be better for us if we have done all we can, rather than them finding him with his throat slit." It's a sensible enough choice, in lands where they're unfamiliar with the customs and traditions, even if Alagosiell's reasons are far different. She knows her Seeking is done, and all that is left is keeping the stranger alive, and getting home. That he will follow her is something she does not even truly consider - because why else would she have found him?

"Wounds like this, with what are no doubt poisoned arrows?" Thavron stares at her. "How can he survive this?"

"He's still alive, isn't he?" Alagosiell snaps, glaring at Thavron. "Help me find something to move him - and if you do anything to harm him further, mother will only be getting one child back, because I will drown you myself."

Thavron glares at her for a long moment, before he returns his knife to the sheath at his belt. "You never chose the easy way of doing things."

"No, I don't." Alagosiell sits back a little on her heels, relaxing somewhat now that Thavron is bending to her wishes, as he should on this journey. "Find something to carry him upon, if you can? And a way down toward the river, as surely it must be a better place to tend to his wounds than this."

That they will be more comfortable closer to water goes unspoken, and Thavron merely nods, leaving Alagosiell to watch over the stranger while he hunts for what they need.

She draws her long knife, resting it against her thigh, and watching the forest around them as best she can. If the orcs return, she'll spare the stranger the pain of a drawn-out death by those creatures, before making sure of her own safety in that final embrace. Her sister would never thank her for it, but better to annoy Lanthir than to be in the hands of orcs.

A quiet moan rises to her ears, this one clearer than the earlier sound, and she reaches out one hand to touch his brow lightly. "Quiet, friend," she murmurs in Sindarin, hoping it is a language still known in the west. "You are safe now."

She's surprised when he opens his eyes, and opens her mouth to call for her brother as she holds the man's gaze with a sense of rising hope - if he is alive enough to wake, there is truly a chance to keep him so.

"Don't." His voice is almost inaudible, a bare whisper of sound, and she can see the fear in his eyes, mingled with what she thinks is shame, though for what, she cannot imagine. "Can't return."

Closing her mouth, with the call unmade, Alagosiell frowns, resting her hand more firmly against his brow. Even if he thinks he is dying, the words make no sense to her. "You will live, friend. Do not despair of that." Under her hand, his skin is less clammy than before, in a way that does not inspire hope, despite his having woken. "All else can be spoken of later."

It's not long before he lapses once more into unconsciousness, and she shakes her head, looking about for her brother. "Thavron!" She waits a moment, waving to him when he comes into view at a run. "He woke for a brief moment, and there is a fever beginning to burn under his skin. Is there anything to carry him upon?"

"Nothing better than the shield over there, and that is more a sledge than a litter." Thavron rests a hand next to hers on the man's brow a moment, grimacing. "We'd have to remove limbs from a tree to make a litter, but that would take more time than sliding him down the slope, even if the latter is less kind on his injuries."

"Best to move him sooner, and not waste time searching for what we might not find." Alagosiell returns her knife to its sheath, and goes to help drag the shield over, shoving it under the man's body as Thavron rolls him on his side.

It is a longer trip down to the river than she liked, even once they found a ready path that led down to a clearing with a pair of boats of unfamiliar make next to where the river widens into a lake. She loosens the straps of the pack on her back, which seems to have grown heavier now that she recalls it, and drops it to the gravel beach.

"Check those boats, and see if there's anything useful around or in them?" Alagosiell glances at Thavron as she begins to dig in her pack for supplies to tend the man's wounds. "I will tend to our new friend."

"Friend?" Thavron stares at her for a long moment. "Alagosiell, you don't even know who he is!"

"He was injured by orcs, no doubt while fighting them, else I doubt he'd have been where we found him. It is enough for me." Alagosiell shrugs, pulling out one of her shirts to use for bandages. "Go, check the boats. I hope they're from his company, and that there might be something in them we might use for bandages other than our own clothing."

Thavron sighs irritably, but he stomps toward the boats to do as she's asked.

Drawing the smaller eating knife from her belt, Alagosiell carefully cuts the cords holding the leather surcoat together, and widen the gashes where the arrows ave gone in so she can more easily lift it away. Something like that would be hard to replace, and there is no need to do much more damage than has already been done. The tunic beneath she slits from his neck to the hem, and works off the arrows before peeling it back to glare at the chain mail beneath.

"There is clothing we can use for the bandages he'll need, and some food." Thavron dumps a pair of tunics on top of Alagosiell's shirt, before he crouched down beside her, touching the arrow in the man's shoulder. "Hold him still, and I'll break the arrows."

Alagosiell nods, moving to straddle the man with care, knees pressed close to his ribs, and hands on his chest while Thavron snaps the arrow shafts. That the shafts don't splinter is a blessing, but the lack of noise from the man at the jostling is worrisome. She moves to check his breathing as soon as Thavron is done, some of her tension bleeding away when she still feels the faint movement of air.

Neither she nor her brother need to speak further, dividing the tasks of tending the man between them. The gambeson and shirt which are beneath the chain mail are cut with the same ruthlessness as the tunic, and a fire is kindled to boil water so they can clean the wounds.

"Are you certain you wouldn't rather give him mercy?" Thavron is using his own small knife to widen the wound in the shoulder enough to pull the arrow free without ripping the flesh around it. Orcs too often barb their arrows for them to think these are not.

"Not unless the one arrow has pierced his bowel." Alagosiell digs into her pack for the dried herbs they'd been told to carry, in case they took a wound while away from home and healers that could be trusted. "Were there any herbs that might be useful in those boats?"

"I did not see any, but I would not expect to." Healing herbs would be too precious a thing to leave behind is a thing that goes unsaid. "I can search for what might be near here, once the arrows are free."

Alagosiell looks at the long beach for a moment before nodding. "Fresh will be better than the dried, if the proper herbs can be found." And her brother can take some time alone to sulk about her refusal to do as he thought would be best.

* * *

The sun is high over their heads before they've finished tending the wounds - just extracting the arrows had been enough for Thavron to mutter about the man being the luckiest Valar-blessed fool he's ever had the misfortune to meet - and washed their hands clean of the man's blood in the cold waters of the lake. All they can do has been done, save to wait, and keep the man from burning too hot with the fever.

Now, Thavron busies himself with gathering what more supplies are left around and in the boats, so he doesn't have to talk to Alagosiell. He doesn't think the man will live, no matter her insistence they help him, but he won't make the mistake of suggesting mercy a third time. Let her see the sort of slow death that comes of wound fever, and maybe she'll regret the decision.

Sorting the food from the other bits of clothing that he'd not grabbed for bandages earlier, Thavron wonders just what sort of company the man had kept. There are shirts and tunics that wouldn't fit anyone but a child, and others that are made of finer fabric than anything he's seen. That they've left food behind suggests they have to travel light, and will either return soon, or are unconcerned about the possibility of resupply elsewhere. Neither is particularly good, in Thavron's estimation.

Thavron bundles the clothing back into one of the boats before carrying the meager stash of food back to the fire. "There can't have been many in his company, and I truly can't imagine they're warriors all - there's at least one child among them, from the clothing left behind."

Alagosiell shrugs, dipping a rag into the bowl of lake-water she's using to bathe the stranger's brow. "We can ask our new friend when he wakes."

If he wakes, but Thavron doesn't voice that thought for now. "We'll only be spared fishing - or hunting - for a day or two at most, and I'd rather fish for my dinner and save what was left behind for our journey home." He pauses, looking at the man with a small frown. "Have you been able to get him to drink anything?"

"A little water, but I want to be careful as not to have him choke upon it." Alagosiell rests a hand against the man's brow a moment, a small frown on her face. "I'll take first watch tonight."

If the orcs came back, hunting their wounded prey, it wouldn't matter which of them took first watch or second, they'd both be dead before the sun rose, and the stranger with them. Thavron is careful not to voice that thought either, though he suspects the same one is running through Alagosiell's mind - and perhaps that is the only event that would spur her to provide mercy to the stranger.

Silence makes the afternoon pass more slowly, and Thavron leaves his sister to the fire and the tending of the stranger more than once simply to keep from growling. That wood needs gathering to keep the fire fed, and fish need caught for their dinner are simply excuses that he grabs at gladly. More gladly he wraps himself in his cloak to sleep as the sun sets behind the forested hill they'd dragged the man down that morning.

Alagosiell wakes him sometime in the dark, hopefully close to midnight, and murmurs that the man's fever has risen, and she had seen no movement in the trees, nor on the lake. "I left yarrow steeping, if you can get some down his throat."

Thavron nods, shooing her to go rest while he wrung out the cloth that lay across the man's brow, and soaking it in cold water again. At least the night isn't so chill it freezes the water, or Thavron would worry about it finishing the work of the orc's arrows.

Once the cloth is replaced, he checks the tea, and dips out some of the tea in the tiny cup he carries on his belt. "You had best drink this without choking, stranger," he mutters as he carefully raises the man's head, and rests it on his knee so he can keep both hands free. Pouring a little into his mouth, and smiling a moment when he feels the motions of swallowing under the fingertips of his other hand. Perhaps he would live, yet.

He snorts at his thought a moment later, shaking his head as he pours a little more down the stranger's throat. Perhaps his sister's hope is catching, or perhaps he just wants to see the man survive to spite his own morbid thoughts. Though what it will gain them for him to live, Thavron is uncertain.

There is a quiet groan from the man as Thavron eases his head back to the rolled tunic that's been used as a pillow. He sets the small cup on the edge of his cloak as he looks down to see the man's eyes open.

"Either you are as strong as my sister thinks, or you a very lucky man to be living right now," he murmurs, leaning close so he can speak without disturbing Alagosiell. Thavron meets the man's gaze, imagining it holds no little confusion, though he can't quite be certain in the dim light from the low fire. "I don't know if that luck will hold, but I hope you live. If only for my sister's sake."

"Strange." The man's brow furrows, his eyes darting back and forth as he tries to look at Thavron - how much he sees is a different matter. "Easterling." His voice is fading quickly, and is labored, as if he's struggling to find each word. "Why?"

"Because she doesn't want to give you the mercy of death." Thavron shrugs, watching the fluttering eyelids to see if the man's slipped back into fever-dreams again. "So live, stranger, and make her right."

* * *

"He woke in the night while you slept."

Alagosiell settles the pot of water on the rough tripod over the fire as Thavron speaks, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow. "Did he say anything?"

"Not particularly. Just a few words. He's still too fevered to make any sense, though, I think." Thavron prods the fire with a stick, before putting a new piece of wood on the flames. "He called me a strange Easterling."

"We are from the east, brother of mine." Alagosiell shakes her head, settling into the space she'd occupied the night before, and lifts the edge of the bandage on the gut wound to look at it. Heat rises from it, and the smell is equal parts herb and something more foul, and she grimaces. They'll have to clean it again once the water boils, and perhaps cauterize it, though she worries about doing so when neither she nor Thavron is particularly skilled as a healer. "And we are dressed in a manner unlike his own."

"How could he know that in the dark, with the fire burning too low to show much of anything?" Thavron scowls, before shaking his head. "No, do not try to answer that. Should I heat one of our knives?" He's not neglected to notice the change in the wound, and had his thoughts travel the same path her own had.

"It would be better stitched, once it is clean of poison and rot." Alagosiell knows her own hand with a needle isn't truly good enough to make a clean scar of it, and while she knows there are those who would prefer a scar to show off, she doesn't know enough of the stranger to be certain.

Thavron slides his small knife from its sheath, and sets it in the hottest part of the coals before adding another dry branch. "This is a more certain solution, particular with your skills with a needle matching my own. I've seen you trying to patch rips."

Alagosiell huffs, but starts to peel away the bandages so she can clean out the wound as best as possible. The bloody, messy strips she drops on the shield they'd used to drag the man down the hill, and she uses a fresh one to wipe away the remains of the poultice, and to try to clean the wound itself.

The man doesn't rouse all through that, which worries Alagosiell. She rests a hand on his forehead a moment, pressing her lips together at the heat radiating from him.

"I'll hold him, you cauterize the wound." Thavron slides the leather-wrapped stick they'd used the day before between the man's teeth before he moves to hold the man down as best he can without putting pressure on the shoulder-wound.

Drawing a deep breath, Alagosiell wraps her cloak about her hand before she pulls the knife from the coals, the blade warming her even through the thick wool. Straddling the man's legs so he can't use them to strike out, she presses the knife to the wound, trying to get as much as possible, though the stench of burning flesh makes her stomach roil. The man comes awake with a shout, though he can't throw them off, and Alagosiell is glad when he falls unconscious again soon.

"I'll search out more of those herbs I found yesterday." Thavron leans back once she drops the knife into the pot of hot water, resting on his haunches for a long moment. "You can rebandage the wound without my help?"

"He's heavy, but not impossible to shift." Alagosiell picks up the dirty bandages, and drops them in the pot as well. She's not sure she'll want to eat out of it again, but they can roast their food just as well as stew it. "Having more herbs will be a help, though. I'll check the shoulder-wound while you're gone, and see if it smells of rot."

Thavron makes a face, but nods, pushing himself to his feet and walking away. Alagosiell watches his retreating back for a long moment before turning back to her own task, making a poultice to press over the newly-cauterized wound before wrapping it. It's more difficult than it might have been if she'd let her brother stay, but as she had told him, not impossible.

Not that it much mattered how tightly she might have bound it, as the man didn't move much save for weak, restless twitching and twisting spurred by the fever that the yarrow can do nothing for if she cannot get him to drink it. At least the movements are hampered by his wounds, though they are also the cause of his distress. So she hopes, at least, as he cries out, sometimes begging someone to forgive him, others telling another to run.

She can't really make sense of his babble, but she listens as she bathes his skin in cool water from the lake, or tends to the boiling pot of bandages, or tries to get him to take at least some small dribble of the yarrow tea. It feels almost futile, though she knows it cannot be. Her Seeking cannot end in death, or she will have only her sisters and nieces to follow her on the throne - and Thavron will never forgive her his needing to take their father's role of King.

It's only after the sun has passed its height that Thavron returns, with a pouch full of herbs and an armload of deadfall for the fire. He looks tired, but less agitated than he had before.

"There is sign the orcs went west and north from here, perhaps down onto those plains that came up to the river where we crossed." He sets the wood next to the fire before crouching across the man from Alagosiell, holding out the pouch to her. "I found some herb that reminds me of sweet-leaf, and certainly had the soothing effect I would expect on my morbid thoughts. I hope it might be of use to calm him if he becomes agitated in his fever."

"He already has, from time to time." Alagosiell takes the pouch, and draws in a breath, smiling at the familiar smell. She hasn't had nightmares since she was a child, but this is the smell that had always soothed them away. "I've never heard of it being used to soothe fever-dreams, but I do not know why. They are as much a troubled mind as nightmares and madness."

Thavron snorts, rolling his eyes at her statement of the obvious, before he rests the back of his hand against the man's brow. "Have you been able to get any of the yarrow tea past his lips?"

"Not for lack of trying." Alagosiell sighs, watching the man with a worried frown. "He will not take anything more than dribbles, and only a few at a time between trickles of water. It is a bitter draught, even for someone who's conscious."

"True enough." Thavron shifts, sliding an arm under the man's shoulder so it might be easier to hold a cup to his lips. It cannot hurt to try to get him to drink more of the yarrow tea.

Drawing some of the leaves from the pouch, Alagosiell crushes them between her fingers beneath the man's nose, watching for his twisted expression to smooth out. She blinks in surprise when his eyes open a moment later, fever-bright and unfocused as they were. It's a surprise, but one she must take advantage while he remains awake.

"Here, friend. Drink. It will help," she murmurs as she brings the cup she's been dipping tea from to his lips.

He gulps the first mouthful, as a thirsty man offered water, but she thinks he would have spat it back out if Thavron hadn't brought up his free hand to clamp the man's mouth shut. It takes a moment for the man to swallow, but he recoils when Alagosiell offers the cup again. Still fevered and almost unaware, but at least they've managed a good mouthful of the tea down his throat at once.

Thavron holds him up for a little while longer as he coughs in the aftermath of the struggle, a frown on his face that doesn't fade with the easing of the man's shudders, nor his careful lowering of the man back to the meager bedding of cloaks they've been able to provide. It's not long before the man is unconscious once more, hopefully a less-troubled sleep.

"I would not have thought it enough to wake him - it never does wake those with nightmares." Thavron watches the man while Alagosiell pours the rest of the dark tea into the cup, so she can try to dribble more of it down the man's throat.

"Perhaps it is somewhat different from the sweet-leaf at home." Alagosiell passes Thavron the now-empty pot to rinse at the lake. "I do not care, though, why it was, only that it is simpler to coax a wakeful man to drink a mouthful of the yarrow than it is to get it down the throat of one who is not awake without him choking upon it."

Her brother doesn't reply to that, simply taking the pot to rinse at the lake's edge. They divide the camp chores between them without speaking, and once they are done, settle on either side of the fire to their vigils - Alagosiell watching the man while Thavron watches the wood - and a comfortable silence returns between them.


	3. Hope and Worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alagosiell and Boromir arrive in Minas Tirith, where they first meet with Aragorn - and a select few others - in an informal sort of reception that gives them a chance to be unsurprised when the formal presentation of the embassy is made.

**9 Fourth Age, October  
Harlond, Minas Tirith**

"Are you certain you wish to bow to protocol and hide your face until we have been, in truth as well as promise, received in embassy by the High King?" Alagosiell is fingering the dark blue fabric laid out on the table in their cabin, a frown on her face.

Randír knows she would prefer to have the chance to abandon a number of little pieces of ceremony and protocol that are common at home - indeed, they've talked, and argued, about what to use and what they need not for most of the six month journey - but he's uncertain it would be wise to leave off the one she hates most. His often hazy memories of his life before he'd traveled east aren't enough for him to be confident of his welcome in the land that been the home of the man he'd been.

"I don't know that I wish to, only that it would be better that I did." He reaches for his boots, tugging them on before standing to settle them well on his feet. At least he's had six months to be certain every bit of new clothing fits him properly. "It is not that I am afraid of what may come, for me," he adds when he sees the deepening frown on Alagosiell's face. "I fear what it would mean for you, and for the embassy your mother wishes to have established, if the hope that I will be welcome once more in Gondor is a hope misplaced."

Alagosiell lets out an irritated huff, stepping away from the table and toward him, raising her hands to rest them on his shoulders, warm through the layers of brocaded silk. Her eyes belie the annoyance in her expression, worry for him clear, though he knows she will never admit its existence aloud.

"If they harm you, they shall face all the rage of the Mallenrim, and those we have taken under our care. For there are none who do not love you for your willingness to protect all who cannot protect themselves. And if they should cast you out for some moment's weakness years past, you shall come home, and Gaearon Rhûnen shall be as she always has been, the proud bastion of Númenor in the uttermost east before the sun. Beholden to none but her Queen and the Mallenrim."

Leaning his head forward so their foreheads touch, Randír rests his hands on her waist. Quietly breathing the same air as she does, reminding himself just what he has, that no matter what may happen, cannot be taken from him. "I am supposed to be protecting you, meleth nín," he murmurs, amusement creeping unbidden into his voice. "So, I will bow to protocol for now, and hope that no harm may come of my accompanying you."

"It will not." Alagosiell closes her eyes, leaning into him and allowing him to soothe her. "I shall have Gannel set my veil as well, then, but I shall not allow it be insisted that Annûnion or Duineniell go veiled, though. The children shall have some freedom from the strictness of court where we do not."

She pulls away after a long moment's silence, meeting his gaze with a determined expression of her own. "At least until we have met with the High King, for I shall not wish to wait longer than I must before we both may be seen by all. And I shall allow none to sway me on that, not even you."

Chuckling, Randír reaches up to take her hands, bringing them to his lips for a moment. "I am yours to command, O Prince."

Alagosiell shakes her head, her smile bright now with voiceless laughter. "Ereg! Your master requires your assistance!" She pulls her hands free, waving one at the veiling when the young man opens the door that leads to the smaller one he shares with Gannel. "Help him with that piece of protocol and pageantry he still yet insists upon."

"Of course, gracious one. Shall I tell Gannel you will require her assistance as much as Prince Randír requires mine?" Ereg's voice is just shy of impertinent, and Randír grins at the mingled exasperation and affection that crosses Alagosiell's face.

"Yes, if you would, Ereg." She pauses, waiting until the door shuts for a moment to speak, her voice quiet and amused. "If he's not careful, you're going to have to enlist a new attendant while his back heals after saying the wrong thing to the wrong person."

"Only if they dare to rouse my anger in so doing." Randír shrugs, sitting back down so it will be easier for Ereg to pin the folds and wrappings about his head. "He knows you won't have him beaten for anything short of a physical threat, and the only others who might dare to harm him, he takes greater care about."

Alagosiell shakes her head, a fond smile crossing her face before she leans down to press a kiss against Randír's lips. "I should hope he is. He's far too interesting to see my mother wish to have him broken."

There is no chance to respond to that before she settles into her own seat, Gannel and Ereg bustling in to veil them from the world.

* * *

Faramir stands with Éowyn on the quay at Harlond, watching as the large, golden-hulled ship that bears the promised ambassadors and their entourage is pulled close, ropes tossed from the sailors on the deck to the shoremen on the dock to moor it. Near a section of rail which is out of the way of the work of docking, he can see Sinia, and a small smile crosses his face when he sees the flash of impatience on the man's face at the wait. Only when the captain of the ship - a woman short and midnight-dark and scowling ferociously - is content with the mooring is a plank run from ship to quay.

Sinia bows to Éowyn once he's stepped off, then to Faramir, his expression difficult to read - though Faramir expects he has had a good deal of training to ensure that he is so.

"Gracious Steward, Gracious Princess. You do us great honor to meet Their Most Gracious and Magnificent Highnesses here."

"We could do nothing less." Éowyn speaks, a small smile on her face that Faramir can hear in her voice. "I look forward to meeting the Princes."

"As they most greatly anticipate meeting you, Gracious Princess." Sinia smiles, stepping just enough to one side that those coming off the ship will not be forced to step around him.

Of which first are several horses, each with a boy to lead it, and a lean man following who is dressed as plainly as the boys. It doesn't take any words for the captain of the honor guard Faramir had brought to escort the ambassadors to pick up a cue, assigning one of his men to direct the boys to where the rest of the horses are waiting.

"The Master of the Horse for the Prince of Braigduin. He shall remain with the ship until all that must be unloaded has been done." Sinia speaks just loud enough to be heard over the noise of the quay. "He is in charge of all the baggage, as well as the horses and hunters of the household."

There is not time to ask what Sinia means by hunters, though Faramir can only imagine dogs and falcons - though how well any bird, at least, would tolerate a journey by sea for the great distance they must have come, he does not know. He does not see the cue that Sinia must have caught, but there must have been one, for Sinia begins to speak, his voice a chant - a herald in his role to facilitate the meeting of nobility and royalty.

"Gracious and Magnificent Prince Alagosiell o Palancirion, Prince of Tol Sáid, Voice of the Queen of Gaearon Rhûnen." As Sinia speaks, a woman climbs from below deck, dressed in the same blue as Sinia. Her face is veiled so only her eyes are visible, a gray like those with Dúnedain blood in their veins. "Be known to Princess Éowyn of Rohan, Princess of Ithilian, White Lady of Emyn Arnen, and to Lord Faramir of the House of Húrin, Prince of Ithilian, Lord of Emyn Arnen, Steward of Gondor."

Now Faramir knows why Sinia had inquired about all the titles of each of those who might be formally introduced to his masters before he'd returned to deliver the message of acceptance. If each person must be introduced in such a fashion, though, it will change the amount of time that must be set aside to formally introduce the ambassadors to the court.

"Gracious and Magnificent Prince Randír o Annûn, Prince of Braigduin, Voice of the King of the Mallenrim." A man, equally tall and grey-eyed as Alagosiell, joins her from below the deck, escorting her down the plank. There is a fleeting moment of disconcerting recognition when Randír meets Faramir's gaze, but it is gone before he can grasp why he might recognize the man.

He must be a man of Gondor, then, for Faramir to possibly recognize him, and one with Númenorian blood running strong in his veins; certainly he is tall enough, and his eyes are gray. His shoulders are broader than most, though, and Faramir expects he'd been a soldier even before he had gone east.

"Prince Alagosiell. Prince Randír." Faramir gives them a courtly bow, a smile just curving his lips, as Éowyn dips in a barely-there courtesy with a warmer smile of her own. "Welcome to Gondor."

"Our thanks, Steward Faramir." Alagosiell's voice is less muffled than he expects, and tinged with some emotion that Faramir cannot quite place. "You and the Princess do us an honor by escorting us personally."

"I would not leave the task to anyone else." Nor would have Faramir denied Éowyn her part in this, though her taking part in the governance work that he must attend to is not always well-received.

Sinia coughs slightly, returning their attention to the ship, and two children standing there, the smaller of them clearly not wanting to wait longer, and the taller of them keeping them both back. "The Prince Duineniell o Palancirion and Lord Annûnion o Palancirion."

The younger all but bolts off the ship, to be caught by Randír, and swung up into his arms, his eyes warm as the child buries their face into the side of his neck.

"It is hard to separate our daughter from her father, even when she must be." Alagosiell's amusement is audible, and Faramir smiles at the obvious fondness between father and daughter.

Annûnion is more dignified as he comes down the plank, though when he joins them, Faramir is startled to see something of Boromir in the boy's face - indeed, he looks much like Faramir's earliest memories of his brother, and that thought is enough to send a chill down his spine even as it nurtures a long-dormant hope in his heart.

"The horses are waiting beyond the Rammas Echor, though it is not a long journey to the city." Faramir turns slightly, and nods toward the wall which Harlond lies on the outside of. "I have been curious about you, Princes, since Sinia spoke of you and of your homeland."

Beside him, Éowyn huffs with amusement, knowing he's been more than curious, as has Aragorn, though there is nothing remaining in the Archives that can give them even a glimpse of the land from which the Princes come.

"Ask what you will of me, and I shall answer as I can." There is a smile clear in Alagosiell's voice now, and the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkles. "Save what must wait until it might be spoken before the High King, or what is not for the ears of men." She looks over at Éowyn, a curiosity in her eyes. "I must confess myself curious as well about the realms of the West, and of the Princess Éowyn since Sinia's return to regale us on his brief visit to the White City."

* * *

When there is a spark of near-recognition in Faramir's eyes, Randír wonders for a brief second if their ruse is up before it truly begins, but his brother only gives him a diplomat's smile, and a shallow bow as might be giving to visiting dignitaries. No suspicion yet, though there's another moment of worry when Faramir is watching Annûnion, a spark in his eyes that Randír might call hope, if he had more of his own.

No matter if Faramir begins to suspect, he cannot know, and Randír cannot allow himself to risk the reception of the embassy until they've met the High King - Aragorn, his memory whispers to him, though Sinia had called him Elessar when he brought back permission to bring the Daerrem to Harlond, and the embassy to Minas Tirith. Only then can his face be seen and his voice heard by those who might know them.

So he follows in Alagosiell's wake toward the horses, keeping Duineniell in his arms until Alagosiell is mounted. The little girl pouts as he hands her up, but Alagosiell strokes their daughter's hair, murmuring to keep her quiet while Randír swings up onto his own broad-backed horse. It's not Landpôl, but his war-horse would not have done well on a long sea-journey, nor would be appropriate here.

Though even the riding horses attract the attention of Éowyn - a name that strikes a familiar chord in Randír, bringing with it memories of golden hair, a strong sword-hand, and laughter around a camp-fire. Another man of the west that would know him if he saw Randír's face or heard his voice, no doubt, even if Randír cannot remember a name to match to the memory. He's uncertain if he hopes whoever it might be is in Minas Tirith to be present for the embassy's arrival or not.

Riding across the Pelennor is strange, the sight both familiar and unfamiliar, as is that of Minas Tirith as it rises, gleaming and brilliant in the early-afternoon light, from the plain. The memories he has of the city are some of the clearest, and yet they still cannot do justice to the city that had witnessed his youth, his triumphs as her captain, and no doubt mourned his fall into shadow, if they did not mourn his death.

The peace the journey from the Rammas Echor to the gates of Minas Tirith is conducted in is welcome, though the idea that perhaps there ought to be conversation nags at the back of his mind. Perhaps Faramir is merely responding to Randír's clear silence, though Alagosiell had given him tacit permission to talk to her. Still, it is a comfortable silence, rather than feeling awkward, and it lasts until they've left their horses in the stables in the sixth circle. Randír takes Duineniell again, carrying her up toward the Citadel, the little girl happy to snuggle into his shoulder.

"Steward Faramir." Alagosiell is the one to breach the silence, her tone careful and measured, and Randír tries not to tense, knowing what she plans to ask. "It is perhaps a breach in protocol - certainly it would be at home - but I would ask if you might arrange that we meet the High King before the pomp of a formal presentation in court. A less formal introduction, and one which I would be greatly honored if you were present at as well."

Randír cannot see Faramir's face to read his expression, but he watches the line of his shoulders, listens carefully to his tone and chosen words as he responds, trying to catch anything that he might about what his brother might think of this.

"I shall ask him, yes, though I am curious why you wish such." Faramir turns his head a little, no doubt to better attempt to read Alagosiell through her veil. It allows Randír to see something of his face, though the small frown could be worry or curiosity.

"It makes for better relations, I have found, when those who are in power can meet in less formal situations first, and see each other not as their roles, but as themselves." Alagosiell's reply is as smooth as if she had practiced it. "I do not wish to offend, nor cause worry, in so asking, merely to have the chance to meet the High King as Alagosiell, not the Prince of Tol Sáid."

"Do you speak at all, Prince Randír?" Éowyn is walking beside him as they pass through the gate, and her expression is curious as she watches him. It is a question that would need him speak, and Randír hesitates, listening as Alagosiell and Faramir continue to speak on the merits of informal and formal meetings.

"Sometimes," he says, very quietly, so not to be heard by his brother. While he does not think Éowyn will recognize his voice, Faramir surely will, and it's not yet time for them to know. He worries about Alagosiell's plan for an informal meeting, but it will be less embarrassing for her if any trouble occurs behind closed doors, and not during a public display of what should be friendship.

"Papa talks at home, all the time." Duineniell turns her head to watch Éowyn, her voice bright with the smile on her face. "He tells the best stories."

"Does he?" Éowyn smiles, though there's confusion in her eyes. "He doesn't seem very talkative today."

"You didn't ask for a story." Duineniell sounds as if this is the simplest thing in the world.

"And what story should I ask for?" Éowyn's smile is warm as summer sun, her expression more amused now than confused. "You must know all the best of his stories."

"The one about the lady in the dungeon, who was rescued by a prince from evil men." Duineniell shifts so she can look at Randír, a cheerful smile on her face. "I like that one the best, because it's true. Mama said so."

Éowyn raises an eyebrow, looking at Randír for confirmation, and he sighed, tilting his head.

"True enough, if gentled for a child's ears." Alagosiell answers before he has to, turning her attention to them for a moment, her gaze meeting Randír's easily, a worried question in them. He shakes his head slightly, not yet too worried. He's spoken all of a word, and she'd interrupted before he had been forced to answer more questions.

It's only a few steps further to exit the tunnel from the gate into the Citadel itself, looking at the White Tree, which Randír finds himself blinking back tears at, to see it in leaf, beautiful and proud and living, as he had no memory of.

"You have seen the Tree before." It is not a question, but Randír still starts to hear Faramir speaking to him. His brother is watching him, holding his gaze as there is nothing else to see of Randír's face, and there is a thoughtful frown on his face.

Randír can do nothing but nod, and Faramir smiles a little, though there is still no greeting as brother, nor true recognition in his expression. Nearly there, but perhaps his mind has turned down a side path, as it were, assuming he is simply a man of Gondor.

"Rooms were made ready for you in the King's House, so you might remain near the court, as well as a house in the sixth circle that might be used for an embassy house." Faramir turns away, leading them toward the palace behind the tower, a palace that had been empty when last Randír had been in Gondor.

"Thank you, Steward Faramir." Alagosiell inclines her head, warmth in her voice. "We are most glad for that courtesy."

No one tries to engage him in conversation again between the courtyard and the rooms they are provided, and Randír relaxes a little as the door closes behind Faramir, leaving them to the peace and quiet of the rooms - though he imagines it will only last until the baggage and their attendants have arrived.

Alagosiell comes closer, and Randír shifts Duineniell so he can wrap one arm around Alagosiell's shoulders.

"I can only hope that I have not made a mistake which will cost us dear," Alagosiell murmurs, leaning her head against his shoulder, much as Duineniell is doing on the other side. "I cannot think that one who showed such courtesy as the Steward, nor such affection for his lady as I saw, would be so cruel as to turn away his own brother, yet still I fear that might happen."

His own fears run in step with hers, and Randír holds Alagosiell close, as if he could shield her from the world in so doing. Or at least the risk that had already been taken up, though he knows he cannot truly do so. This is not a place where he can be the warrior, standing with naked blade between his kin and an enemy, but where he must be the politician, the diplomat. It is not a role that comes easily to him, though he has learned something of it in the years since he woke on the banks of the Anduin.

"Faramir may not be certain yet that I am anything more than a man of Gondor - and I think he is certain of that much. I had not thought I would find myself brought to tears to see the White Tree in bloom, as it never has been to my memory. Nor would have been, for there have long been no kings in Gondor."

Alagosiell sighs. "It will have to be enough, for him to think that you are merely of Gondor, at least until we may reveal to him the truth."

"Why couldn't papa talk to the Princess Éowyn?" Duineniell doesn't lift her head from where she's resting it on Randír's shoulder. "She was very nice."

"Because they aren't supposed to know who I am yet, and Faramir is my brother. He would know my voice, and I have been so long away, and with no word to them that I lived, that I do not know what he would say to me. It will be better to tell him when there aren't a lot of other people to see what he looks like when he finds out I am alive, and I have not tried to come back to Gondor in all the years I've been away."

Duineniell frowns with thought, though she doesn't try to figure out just what he was thinking for long. "But you came to marry mama, and make her home your home. He has a home here, with Princess Éowyn. Why would he want you to come here?"

"Because in Gondor, women go to live where their husbands live, not the other way around." Randír watches his daughter's face contort again before she shakes her head.

"That's silly. Everyone knows boys don't stay home." Duineniell huffs at the idea of a woman going from her home. "Uncle Faramir is silly."

"Perhaps." Alagosiell shifts, pulling away from Randír, and reaching to take Duineniell. "But it is how things are. Shall we go find Sannith, and have her change you out of these formal robes?"

Duineniell nods vigorously, wiggling in Alagosiell's arms until she's let down, dashing down the hallway that leads deeper into the suite, nearly careening into Annûnion as he comes out of one of the rooms. Already exploring their temporary home, as adventurous as Randír remembers being as a boy.

"Ada?" Annûnion is watching Randír from under his lashes, almost nervous as he waits for Randír to come closer. "May I go with you and naneth when you meet the High King?"

Crouching down to be on eye-level with his son, Randír is quiet a moment, studying Annûnion's expression. "Not this first meeting, when we are to meet him in the privacy of a study or small receiving room. It's just to be your mother and myself, the King and the Steward."

"But that's not the only time you're supposed to meet him." Annûnion looks at him hopefully, eyes wide and pleading. "I don't want to be stuck here like a baby."

"If your mother agrees, and you remember to behave as Hwiniol has been trying to instruct you this last year." Randír braces himself as Annûnion throws his arms around Randír's neck, a broad grin on his face at the permission, however provisional.

"Thank you, ada!"

* * *

Éowyn has a thoughtful frown on her face as she accompanies Faramir toward Aragorn's office, and her words are carefully measured as she says, "Prince Randír was very quiet even when he did speak, almost as if afraid to do so, or at least, to be heard. Indeed, he seemed to be relieved when Alagosiell spoke for him."

Faramir had noticed the latter as well, and he had noticed as well that Randír had flinched when Faramir spoke directly to him. "I think he might have been afraid I would recognize him, though I am uncertain why." Unless he were a soldier of Gondor who had fled rather than face the bleak outcome of fighting Mordor - but that doesn't ring true, not with what he's been told of Randír, nor what he's seen. "We are likely to find out when he and Alagosiell meet with Aragorn."

He's rather certain Aragorn will agree to Alagosiell's request, even if he does so more out of curiosity than anything else. And while Alagosiell had said she found it made for better relations to meet informally, Faramir couldn't help but think there's more behind the request than that. Some secret that she wished to keep quiet until it had been revealed to the King. That she and Randír both wished to keep quiet, perhaps, if it is the reason behind Randír's odd silence.

Aragorn looks up when Faramir enters, and there's a good deal of curiosity in his face, though he doesn't leave the work he'd been doing when Faramir arrives. Some of it must be finished before the evening and the formal reception of the embassy, so the ministers who rely on decisions from Aragorn aren't left grumbling.

Instead, Faramir settles in one of the chairs near the hearth, glad to see that Lord Glorfindel is not here - he expects that while the conversation would be entertaining for the elven lord, it would be less so for him. Éowyn settles herself on another chair, her expression thoughtful, though she doesn't share her thoughts with him yet. Later, perhaps, either here or in the quiet of their own rooms.

They aren't left waiting long before Aragorn signs and seals the last piece of parchment, handing it to the waiting page to be taken to the minister who needs it.

"Did the reception of the Princes go well?" Aragorn asks as he joins them near the hearth, a servant bringing him a goblet of wine to match those that had been served Faramir and Éowyn already.

"In great part, yes, but there are concerns that were not settled during the journey from Harlond." Faramir frowns a little, looking down into his wine a moment before looking back to Aragorn. "They go veiled, in the manner of Easterlings, but only the Princes were, none of the others. Even their children were unveiled." That Annûnion bore a resemblance to Boromir at a young age, Faramir does not mention, as he doesn't wish to give Aragorn hope without any substance to bolster it.

"Prince Randír is a very quiet man, though I wonder if it is perhaps more because he is here than because he is naturally inclined to be so." Éowyn's own observations echo some of Faramir's, and he smiles at her a moment. "His daughter spoke of stories he tells her - one of which is no doubt one of his own adventures made sweet for a child."

Aragorn nods, a small frown on his face. "Were you able to find out much of him?"

"No." Faramir sighs, a frown creasing his own face. "Only that I am sure he has seen the White Tree before, the one which had stood dead in the courtyard for so long. It does not mean that he must be a man of Gondor, but if he is not, than he must have traveled with Prince Theodred on one of his few visits to Minas Tirith."

"I do not think he is a man of Rohan, though I cannot be certain, when he spoke barely a word." Éowyn sounds as frustrated by the lack of knowledge as Faramir. "Perhaps he will speak more later, if you agree to the meeting Prince Alagosiell asked to be arranged."

Aragorn raises an eyebrow, looking over at Faramir, and Faramir tilts his head, acknowledging the unspoken rebuke for neglecting that request when the conversation had begun.

"Prince Alagosiell wishes to have a less formal meeting than that which has been planned for the afternoon." Faramir takes a sip of wine. "She says it is because she finds diplomacy easier when those who must engage in it are not forced into formality at all meetings."

That Faramir does not think that is all of it goes unspoken and unasked - Aragorn's expression speaks of his own thoughts traveling in the same paths. It is those unspoken reasons, as well, that are those that must be weighted the most in granting or denying Alagosiell's request.

"Will she be alone?" Aragorn raises his goblet to keep himself from asking anything else while Faramir answers.

"I think she plans that Prince Randír will be there as well." Faramir curves one corner of his mouth up in a smile that holds both hope and worry. That whatever reason is unvoiced may have something to do with Prince Randír does not go unthought by any of them, Faramir is certain.

There is another long moment of silence before Aragorn asks him to bring Alagosiell and Randír to meet him, in the greater privacy of the outer chambers of the royal suite. They need to know what the foreign princes want, and this is the best chance they have to find out before the formal reception.

* * *

Glorfindel watches as Aragorn barely keeps from pacing, waiting for the arrival of the Mallenrim princes, suppressing the urge to let his amusement show. Whatever secrets the princes care to share, even if they are what both Faramir and Aragorn seem to hope - that Faramir's brother, vanished for years, is alive and well - they are not going to change what the princes themselves desire from their coming. Only, perhaps, how they go about it.

The distant clatter of boots takes a moment to reach Aragorn - and Arwen, which niggles at Glorfindel like a stone in his shoe - and a bit longer for it to come to halt outside the door. A knock precedes Faramir's entrance, followed by the princes. Wrapped up in a blue that Glorfindel had not seen on the Mallenrim the last time he'd met any of that people. Silver brocaded, and that is at least familiar, and patterned with the mountains and stars that had been the favored symbols of the Mallenrim.

"Prince Alagosiell of Gaearon Rhûnen and Prince Randír of the Mallenrim." Faramir's shortening of no doubt long titles makes amusement light the eyes of the woman, and Glorfindel cannot help but curve his lips in an answering smile. "Aragorn Elessar, King of Gondor and Arnor, his wife Queen Arwen, and the Lord Glorfindel."

It is a simple enough way of introducing all within to the others, and Glorfindel tilts his head in response to the shallow bows from the princes. They didn't have Sinia's deference, but neither did they have Ramnaur's disdain of formalities.

"Thank you for granting my request for a private audience, Gracious Majesty." Alagosiell is the one to speak, Randír remaining silent at her side, which is curious, but nothing surprising. "If we may sit? I would tell you a tale, and it is best spoken of at our ease."

Curious, that, and Glorfindel shifts so he sprawls a little more in the seat he's occupying, while everyone else finds chairs of their own. Watching both princes, and trying to decide if Randír seems as much like Faramir as Faramir hopes. It is difficult through the veil, a garment which is more annoying when Alagosiell unpins her own to reveal her face. More handsome than pretty, he supposes, with a stern mien that is relieved by some sense of hidden amusement. That, at least, she has in common with Glorfindel's memories of Ramnaur.

"In years past, before the Sundering, there came to be a tradition among the women of the Mallenrim to Seek for one who would make best for her a lover to sire heirs, or a husband at need. It is a woman's tradition and a woman's secret that is only known as such, and shall ever so be."

The cadence of her words is that of a storyteller in their element, perhaps informed by training - Ramnaur's oldest law-son had been talented in that fashion, and taught as such because of it, despite having no need of the skill in his role as Prince of Braigduin. Glorfindel relaxes a little, letting her voice weave a mental image of a journey from the furthestmost east into the more familiar - to him - west. Across the great plain that is Rhûn, and the dead lands between Mirkwood and Mordor, fording the Anduin where it runs shallow enough to do so.

All with only her eldest brother for companion, and little training for either in weapons beyond knives and staves - her brother must not be training for war, but for some other occupation that is considered in the domain of men among the Mallenrim. Not the best situation when there are orcs about, even if they aren't trying to kill everyone in their path. Glorfindel can only think that this must have been as Aragorn and the others escorting the Ring-Bearer went down the Anduin themselves.

"We could not help but follow in their wake, for my Seeking would take me along the river rather than into the next great plain that lay to our west. It was a dangerous choice, but to turn aside would be to turn from my Seeking without my task fulfilled. Not as terribly dangerous as we feared, though, for we came upon them once more, scattered and slain. Among them was a man, sore wounded and perhaps nearer to death than we imagined at the time, and though my brother would have given him the mercy of that release, I forbade it."

Randír has remained still through all the story, and moves now, slowly unpinning the veil that hides his own face. Even without the wonder on the faces of his companions, Glorfindel would have guessed Randír had once been known as Boromir, his face was alike enough to Faramir's to be kin. Yet, the flame there is different, the person who might once have been Faramir's brother dimmed and changed.

"My wounds had been poisoned, both by some foul Morgul concoction and by wound-fever, and I had been dealt a great blow to my head. I do not remember much of the time around those days, nor remembered a great deal of anything then, save the name I had borne after some time."

Alagosiell is watching them as much as Glorfindel is watching her and Randír, her fingers laced through Randír's in a gesture both possessive and protective. Though he knows women do not fight among the Mallenrim, Glorfindel would not wonder if she did in defense of her husband.

"I still do not recall as much as I would care to," Randír continues quietly, his expression full of worry. "I went with them because I could only recall, beyond my name, a great sense of shame, and a certainty I could not return. I still cannot recall what evil I might have done that I thought it best to go into exile, save in nightmares that slip away as I wake."

That piece of information seems to ease some of the tension from Aragorn and Faramir alike, though it is as worrisome as any other reason someone might not return. Glorfindel wonders if there is anything that can be done to help those missing memories, if they are as completely lost as Randír seems to believe. Even if the healers of the far east have gained much knowledge over the Age, there are still some methods of healing that are out of the reach of most Men.

"An evil, perhaps, but one that Frodo had forgiven you for despite not knowing if you lived or died, nor where you might be if you indeed lived." Aragorn speaks quietly, and with a warmth to his voice that is often tempered when not speaking among friends. Accepting readily Prince Alagosiell, then, as well as the return of a familiar face. "We feared that some fate worse than merely death might have befallen you when we could see nothing of you, nor could we return to search when we discovered you had not been taken as Merry and Pippin had been."

"'They took the little ones.'" Alagosiell sounds as if she is quoting someone - Randír, as she is watching him with a small smile. "It was something you said while you were in the depths of your fever. That someone took the little ones, and begging that we rescue them. I had expected you spoke of orcs as the ones who had taken those you wished rescued, but little ones?"

Now she looks at Aragorn, raising her eyebrows in silent emphasis of the question.

"Hobbits." Glorfindel shrugs when she looks at him instead, one corner of his mouth twitching upward in a grin. "There are other names for them, but they call themselves hobbits. There were four of them on the quest to destroy the One Ring, though many of us doubted the younger two, at least, should even be there."

"We chased the orcs across the Wold of Rohan, only to find the orcs killed by the Rohirrim, and Merry and Pippin rescued by their own hand in that chaos. They escaped into Fangorn Forest, and were met by an old friend."

"They live, then? And are well?" There is an easing in Randír's expression, as a burden lifted.

"They all do, though Frodo went West eight years ago. He and Bilbo were both accorded permission to sail to the Undying Lands." Aragorn's expression holds some hint of sadness, though it's not a deep one. More a regret that is fading. "His wounds never fully healed, and his mind remained troubled by all he had seen and done."

Some of the worry returns to Randír's face, and Glorfindel studies him for a long moment, trying to determine what thoughts have brought some care back. Perhaps some memory or nightmare, as he had mentioned before, that he cannot help but poke at like a child with a cut.

"There were others with us. An elf and a dwarf. What of them?" Randír avoids asking after Mithrandir, though whether because he doesn't recall him - a thought that Glorfindel finds laughable - or because he recalls that the wizard had fallen, Glorfindel cannot tell.

"Legolas and Gimli have oft traveled together since the end of the war, and Gimli has brought some of his folk to the Glittering Caves of Helm's Deep. They rebuilt the gate in the first wall of the city here, to replace what had been destroyed by Mordor's armies." Aragorn is the one who knows most of what Randír has asked after, the rest of them content to listen to the conversation for now. "I had not thought to send a messenger to them, though if I had known you were alive and returning, I would have done so sooner. They will want to see you again, to know you are alive and well."

Randír looks away from Aragorn, his lips twisting in a smile that is both bitter and amused. "Alive and well as may be. Indeed, happy with my family and my home in a land far from any I had seen before. But I am not the same man who once traveled with you, and who was the eldest son of the Steward."

That much, Glorfindel thinks even the simplest of people who had known Boromir of Gondor would have figured out by now. He had only met the man briefly in the months before the Fellowship had left to carry the One Ring to its doom, and he could see it. Randír did not have the loud brashness of Boromir, nor the arrogance. The same face, the same certainty in his carriage, the same care written into his expression, but similarities did not make for the same person.

A soft bark of laughter escapes Randír, his smile softening as he shakes his head. "I cannot even recall my father's name, only barely enough to know he had been Steward of Gondor. Faramir's name I recalled early enough, but he is the only one of my kin I truly recall any longer. All my life before we crossed into Rhûn is a strange patchwork, some places faded and uncertain, others sharp and clear, and some yet still missing - perhaps forever - or only recalled in dreams which details slip away and leave me only the shadow on the mind."

Randír looks at each of them a moment, before settling his attention back on Aragorn. "I do not tell you this that you keep the news from them - or any others - for it will be known soon enough, but that when you do, you can give them warning that I am not who I might have been, nor can recall much of what may have been on our journey. Insult or boon, animosity or friendship."

The lack of memory could be problematic - and to have lost as much as Randír implies is something that makes Glorfindel wish Elrond were still here, or Galadriel, but the best of them with damaged minds are no longer in Arda. No one to help Randír to recover what might be salvaged, if he wishes to. It makes him bite back a sigh of frustration, and settle a little more into his chair to listen for the rest of the time before the afternoon's pageantry.

* * *

Faramir watches the court gathered for the formal presentation of the embassy that Aragorn had already accepted earlier, in the hours spent talking with Boromir - Randír, truly, more than the brother Faramir had last seen departing for Imladris - and Alagosiell. It had been bittersweet to find his hopes met, to have his brother back in some fashion, if not as he'd thought he might. Nor for as long as he might hope, as there were duties that would take Alagosiell and Randír back to the east, that they could not leave for too long.

He straightens slightly when the first creak of the great doors at the end of the hall reaches his ears, as everyone's attention turns to those beyond the doors. First through is Sinia, resplendent and subdued at the same time, in his dark blue and silver robes, the black of the mountain motif on them invisible at this distance. Behind him, Faramir could see three others - the third must be Annûnion, who had been mentioned as taking part in this.

Even before Sinia speaks, the first whispers begin, spreading from those who could most clearly see past the doors to see the bared faces of Alagosiell and Randír. Faramir is glad he'd had a chance to speak with his uncle between the informal meeting and this, to allow Imrahil a chance not to be caught unguarded now.

"Their Gracious and Magnificent Highnesses, Prince Alagosiell o Palancirion, Prince of Tol Sáid, Voice of the Queen of Gaearon Rhûnen, and Prince Randír o Annûn, Prince of Braigduin, Voice of the King of the Mallenrim, ask most humbly to approach his Most Noble and Glorious Majesty, King Elessar Telcontar, High King of Gondor and Arnor, to present the embassy and good wishes of Her Most Glorious and Magnificent Majesty, Queen Rhawsûl of Gaearon Rhûnen."

Sinia's voice rolls out over the increasing chatter, tones loud and clear enough to be heard, Faramir is certain, even at the edges of the hall. It is a skill that Faramir had learned more on the battlefield than in a court, but it is useful in both.

He steps forward, drawing a breath to answer, in his role as Aragorn's Steward. "Their Highnesses are given leave to bring their embassy before the High King, and are welcome to approach King Elessar to present that embassy in person." None of the lengthy titles Sinia had used, but that had been among the details discussed earlier. Giving them invitation to leave off the protocol they were most familiar with, and relax somewhat in the decidedly less formal court Aragorn holds.

Sinia bows to Faramir before he turns, bowing more deeply to Alagosiell and Randír, and lastly turning his attention to Aragorn, dropping to one knee, though he keeps his gaze up instead of dropping it to the floor as he had at the first meeting.

Alagosiell and Randír take their cue, stepping into the hall properly together, Annûnion following behind, and stopping when he is level with Sinia, while his parents continue through the hall. They sink to one knee themselves once they reach the foot of the dais, bowing their heads in unison before rising.

The hall has fallen silent, the nobles of Gondor watching with fascination to see what Aragorn will do when faced with the return of Denethor's older son, and one of the most beloved lords of Gondor.

"Your welcome, we thank you for, Most Noble and Glorious Majesty." Alagosiell's voice is easily heard in the silence, though Faramir is close enough that even if the chatter had continued, he'd have heard her. Her words are measured and even, voice tinted with an accent most here had never heard. "From Her Most Glorious and Magnificent Majesty, Queen Rhawsûl o Palancirion, Queen of Gaearon Rhûnen, Land of the Uttermost East Before the Sun, we bring greetings of joy and thanks. Too long has there been no King in the West with whom we might treat, and for our House to send its daughters to in friendship. Our Queen is most grateful that you might now, long years since last one of our line stood before the throne of a High King, welcome our embassy into your glorious court."

Aragorn stands from his throne, and Arwen beside him, coming a few steps down the dais. Not to the base, not yet.

"We welcome you to Gondor, and to our court, Prince Alagosiell, Prince Randír, and too the embassy of your Queen Rhawsûl. It is our hope that this shall be the beginning of a friendship that will grow between our kingdoms in the west, and yours in the east."

Faramir can see the tension go out of some of the nobles who had come to Minas Tirith to witness this, and those who had been here as a matter of course. It allows whispers to begin once more, and Alagosiell has to raise her voice to be heard above them.

"As too is out hope, and in honor of that hope, we have brought gifts from our House to Your Most Noble and Glorious Majesty."

Those are the words that cue Annûnion and servants who carry heavy chests between them to come forward, pride clearly visible on the boy's face for his role. He opens each of them as their contents are named, so all could see and appreciate the treasures.

"Spices of both our lands and traded from the furthest reaches of Harad. Gems mined from the mountains that guard our western border and from the mountains of the furthest south. Silks from our most skilled weavers and ramie from the weavers of Harad. And books, copied from those held in the Royal Archive, illuminated by the best scribes of our kin and our allies in the Orocarni."

The first of the chests perfumes the air with smells both strange and enticing, but it is the last that most interests Faramir. The books inside are no doubt works of art, but the wealth of information they might hold is the greater treasure. The Master Archivist will be glad to add them to the archives here, and Faramir looks forward to looking through them.

"Rich gifts indeed," Aragorn replies, his voice silencing the conversations once more. "But the gift we welcome most is that which you have not spoken of." He comes down the dais now, until he can look them in the eye on a level. "That you have given us the chance to renew a friendship thought lost, and brought to Gondor one of her sons that has been mourned in his absence."


	4. Before the Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir wakes as his fever breaks, and finds a terrifying blank where his memories should be - even his name has been torn from him. Even with the dawn, nothing seems familiar, and all he's certain of is a nameless dread.

**3019 Third Age, February-March  
Parth Galen**

He isn't certain how long he's been drifting in the dark, hot and cold by turns, with pain his ever-present companion. He isn't certain how often that strange, painful peace is interrupted by jagged flashes of sound and color that make him want to fight or flee - only that every time, there is someone there. Either a woman who speaks softly and soothingly, with gentle hands and cool clothes to chase away the heat, and water to cool his throat, or the man who has no sympathy for his weakness, making him drink bitter potions and commanding him to live.

When he wakes properly, he's uncertain even of where he is, and he remains still for a long moment, not opening his eyes. It's chill and slightly damp, with the quiet around him broken only by an occasional pop that sounds like a low fire, and the distant roar of a waterfall. Near to a river, then, and he thinks he _ought_ to remember where he is, but nothing comes to him save a terrifying blankness that makes him shiver.

"Awake, then?" The voice is familiar, a man's voice that conjures bitter flavors and arms like bands across his chest. He can put no name to it, and that bothers him. How does he now know the one who has helped him to survive those terrible wounds he must have taken - and can remember no better than anything else. "Or shall I wake Alagosiell to listen to your fevered mutterings once more?"

He frowns, opening his eyes, though he can see little in the darkness. There are stars above him, in a sky that is a swath of pure darkness between points of light, and when he turns his head, he can see a fire that is as low as he thought it might be, shedding more warmth than light. He thinks there's a lump on the ground beyond it, but he cannot be certain. Another person is sitting where he has to crane his neck to see them properly, and he only does so for a moment. The gesture pulls too much at his shoulder, which feels as if someone has shoved a knife into his flesh.

"Where am I?"

"You tell me; this isn't my land." The man is staring at him, he can feel the gaze almost boring a hole into his skull. "If the maps I studied before are accurate, the river is the Anduin, but beyond that, I have no real knowledge of the land."

"I can't." The admission slips from him without conscious thought, and he would wince at it, save that it is terribly true, and that frightens him. He tries to sit up, hoping that if perhaps he can see more, he might drag some memory out. His breathing is rapid, but he cannot find the strength to slow it, no matter how it makes his shoulder, and the hip opposite, throb in time with his racing heart.

The struggle affords him nothing until the man sighs, and shifts, coming to slide an arm under his shoulders - arms across his chest, a hand over his mouth, flashes of fear - and pulls him upright. Holding him until he is steady, offering him no harm or trouble.

"It seems that your fever is at least broken, even if your agitation would belie that thought. It's been long enough you've been lost in it to make it a worry that you'd even live." The words feed the rising sense of panic, as does the continuing inability to recall anything of use. "I am called Thavron."

"I." He pauses, trying to breathe, his teeth clenching tightly as he forces himself to draw a breath, deep and as slow as he is able. "I cannot recall my name." To admit it makes it real, and he cannot stop himself from panting in his dread. There is so much he should remember, and he can recall none of it. Not even the name of the language he spoke, or how he took the wounds he can feel.

He thinks Thavron frowns, though he cannot be sure with only the light from the stars and the glowing embers of a fire. "Can you recall anything?"

"No." He clenches his teeth a moment, pushing at the darkness that envelops everything that should be full of memory. That he thinks should be full of memory. "Nothing but darkness."

There are flashes of something more, but they make no sense, and he does not know what to make of them. Sound, color, pain, other sensations harder to describe so succinctly, none of them that make any real sense. He drags in another harsh breath, hands fisting in the wool of the cloak he must have been wrapped in, and now rests half under him on the ground.

He can hear Thavron move again, the man muttering - to himself, no doubt - in a language that sounds tantalizingly familiar and strange at the same time. Soon there are fingers in his hair, searching along his scalp until he stiffens, clenching his teeth to keep back a yelp when pain bursts along his nerves. A lump on his head; another wound he cannot recall taking.

"We should have searched for such a wound at the first." Thavron sounds annoyed, though the man at least sits back and gives him room to try to breathe past the panic digging claws into his chest. "We would not have been able to do aught for it, for neither of us are healers, but it would have helped to know of it."

"How was I wounded?" It is better a question to ask than who he is or where he is, for Thavron cannot tell him the latter, and the former cannot be in Thavron's knowledge, or he would have mentioned it by now.

"Arrows." Thavron's looking at him, that much is clear even in the dim light. Watching him, no doubt, though he cannot read Thavron's expression. "Through the mail you wore, and gambeson beside. Orc-made, barbed and poisoned. You're lucky the one in your gut was no deeper, or I doubt you'd live now."

Thavron spares him nothing, and there is no pity in his voice, merely steady certainty. "If my sister had not insisted on tending to your wounds, I would have rather given you the mercy of a swift death. The Valar watch over you, though to what purpose, I cannot tell."

He cannot think why he should be so blessed, either, nor can fathom why he feels a deep certainty that he is not deserving of the Valar's good regard, or any other being's. Perhaps something in the panic that still grips him, if not as tightly as earlier, or perhaps something that is within the memories the dark continues to keep from him.

"If they do, I have no better thought as to the reason than you." He leans forward enough to rest his elbows on his knees, and cradles his head in his hands, as it now throbs in time with the other wounds. "No more than I know anything else."

Thavron sighs, and he can hear what he supposes is a shrug, and the movement of the other man away from him. Back to where he had been before, no doubt. "You'll need a name, even if you can't recall your own. For something that we might call you - my sister is fond of reminding me that people are not dogs to be called with a hiss or a whistle, save when words are ill-advised."

He sits in the quiet that falls after Thavron's words, trying to recall some fragment of memory that would let him chose a name that suits, if he cannot drag his own name from the suffocating darkness. Still, nothing comes but a sense of drifting, and he can at least use that for a name, in a manner.

"Randír," he murmurs, before looking up at Thavron, uncertain if his expression holds his frustration and fear, and hoping it does not. "Though it would be more a wanderer in darkness."

"Even the darkest night has to give way to dawn eventually." Thavron stirs the fire, adding a small log that catches after a moment, a flare of light that makes the shadows beyond its reach seem all the darker. "There is no place, save perhaps the depths of the forests of Tharaear, that remains forever dark." He pauses, a small smile visible in the renewed firelight. "Though from here, those forests are east as well as south, I think, as well as across the ocean. Too, I have heard that even under those great canopies there is light, though it is as dim as twilight."

Randír hopes that the darkness that is his lack of memory will give way to knowledge of himself and his past with the dawning of the day, though he fears it will not. Still, even if it should be as he fears, he has a serviceable name to give himself, and time while his wounds heal to prod at that absence of memory.

* * *

Thavron watches Randír as the man stares at the fire, his brow furrowed as he clearly tries to find memories he has already said are absent - and even with the knock to the head, that he cannot remember so much as his name troubles Thavron. It doesn't matter that he has given a name, if he's not choosing something new because he desires it rather than because he has no knowledge of himself before. Nor can Thavron do anything to help, save to wait and hope that Randír regains some of his memories before too terribly long, and he has some vague sense that if it doesn't return soon, it will become more difficult.

He blinks, turning his own attention mostly away from Randír, prodding the fire a moment as he lets his thoughts drift, and is little surprised they do not drift very far. Thavron shifts his gaze to the cloak-wrapped lump that is his sister, thinking that this is not at all what he had bargained for when he agreed to accompany her on her Seeking. He had hoped it would be a simple trip, not far into the lands west of the mountains, despite her insistence on studying ancient maps of the western lands.

When they'd passed the inland sea, he'd very nearly despaired of returning home at all - the further they travel, the greater the danger in the trip home - even if she did find a man to take for a husband. Now, he just hopes this foolishness with a man who he's surprised still lives will be the end of their journey.

"You said you traveled with your sister. Hers, then, is the other voice I have heard in the spaces between drifting in the dark?" Randír meets Thavron's gaze, though he has to be somewhat flame-dazzled from staring so long at the fire. "Why bring her with you, and not some other soldier?"

Thavron stares a moment before he laughs, shaking his head at the assumption, though there's precious little amusement to be had. "I'm no more a soldier than I have to be. And I am not the one who brought her west - she chose where we traveled, and I am only here as her sworn protector." He looks away again, staring into the black shadows under the trees, listening more than looking for movement. "I would prefer to be home, to be tending to our cities and roads, even to the southern ports and trade enclaves, rather than here. I am not suited to be a soldier."

Why he tells Randír this, he's not certain, but he cannot snatch the words back from the air, only let them be. He glances at Randír, trying to see what the words have evoked in the man, and is curious when he sees only confusion. Perhaps Randír cannot imagine such a wealth of places and projects to be looked after, coming from a land where Thavron has yet to see any sign of true permanence beyond what look to be ancient monuments of the past.

"Where is home?"

"East. The uttermost east, beyond the Ered Tirith - the Orocarni, the ancient maps name them - before the seas and the sun." Thavron smiles softly, thinking of the home he hasn't seen in nearly a year, of the sun rising out of the sea, making the city that spanned the Aracelon all but glow under the light. "Four great rivers to water the pastures and fields, and to carry the spoils of the mountains down to the sea - or take the treasures of the sea to the mountains in return. Gleaming roads of stone where there are no highways of bright water, and cities of stone that glow silver and gold beneath the sun, richer than any metal. I've not seen anything that is the equal this side of the Ered Tirith."

There is still naught but confusion on Randír's face, and Thavron wonders if all record and knowledge of Gaearon Rhûnen has been lost here, along with the might of ancient Númenor which had given rise - according to the chronicles - to both the kingdoms of the furthest west of Middle Earth, and the kingdom of the furthest east. Certainly their own knowledge of the western kingdoms is sparse, drawn from ancient maps and Chronicle of Ramnaur, written in the final years before the defeat of the Great Shadow.

Or perhaps it is that Randír cannot remember, any more than he can remember his name. Thavron isn't certain which possibility he likes better as the truth, as either one afforded them some safety, even if it is little enough, with the Great Shadow rising once more, and stirring up the Shadow-loyal among the nomads of the great plain.

"It is a long journey, though I shall hope it will not take as long to travel home as it took to travel west, if Alagosiell declares the journey at an end." Thavron shrugs, adding another small stick to the fire. "If she says it is not, we will travel on. Perhaps south along this river, perhaps west further, though the land there looked empty to my eyes. Naught but plains could we see from the river when we crossed it, with no mark of life to break the expanse."

It reminds of him the great plain, though even there, there were rivers and the inland sea. He's seen nothing of that in the plain to the west, before the trees began.

Randír shakes his head, his brow furrowing again as he shifts to sit more comfortably. "I think there is more there than can be seen, but I have no memory to support that certainty."

"How you might know that is unimportant for tonight, save that it might be a memory that fights to emerge from the dark. It is my sister who will determine the course of her journey and mine, as she has this last year. Yours, too, if you have no certainty of where you might go alone." Thavron sets the stick he's used to prod the fire aside, meeting Randír's gaze once more. "You should rest some yet, as you are not healed despite the breaking of the fever. I will keep watch until dawn."

A stubborn expression crosses Randír's face a moment before he sighs, and nods, allowing Thavron to help guide him back down to the cloak so he might sleep again. Perhaps in the morning it might be good to see if Randír could stand well enough to go down to the lake and bathe, but for now, sleep is best.

* * *

Sunlight on his face wakes him in the morning, and Randír waits for a long moment before opening his eyes, listening to the world around him. It sounds much as last night, save there are birds singing from the trees. Scolding, some of it sounds like. He turns his head, not daring to try to roll when even that movement makes the wound in his shoulder take notice of his wakefulness and flare with pain.

Thavron is still sitting next to a low burning fire, tending to the pot that hangs over it, but there is only an empty cloak on the far side of the embers. The sister, then, is absent, and that makes him listen closer to the sounds, blinking when he realizes the sounds of the water aren't the same, and he very carefully turns his head to stare at the sky above him, the blue almost painful, though streaked with long lines of pale grey clouds. He will not watch a woman at her bath, much less with her brother so close - able to do him harm if he were to offer that sort of insult.

"Alagosiell would be unoffended if you were to look." He can hear Thavron shift slightly, and imagines only a hand being placed on the hilt of a knife. "Though I find I do not like to think of strangers looking upon my sister at her bathing nearly as much as she would permit."

The splashing of water being poured pauses for a moment, a woman's voice coming after that is familiar from the periods of light and sound between darkness. "Does our friend wake? That is good." It sounds now as if she is wading out of the water, and Randír waits until he hears the sound of footsteps on the stones closer to the fire before he dares to look.

Alagosiell is dressed nearly the same as her brother, though with the tunic belted close, it is clear the form beneath is that of a woman. He can see little of her features with the sun behind her, and indeed, the view beyond her distracts him from trying to look too closely. An island rises from the center of a lake, steep-sided and topped with trees, and naggingly familiar despite the lack of words to name it or the lake from which it rose.

"Why the darkling frown, friend?" Alagosiell draws his attention back to her with the question, settling onto the cloak he'd noticed before, reaching to add a stick to the low flames before warming her hands over them. "See you something wrong?"

"No." He sighs, wishing the dawn had brought more memory, but he is not given even that much. "Only something familiar to which I can put no more name than I could recall my own." Randír summons a smile to his face with effort, before deciding to brave the pain of trying to sit upright. He has some little more success than in the night, managing to get his elbows under him, but still requires Thavron to aid him to full upright. At least he can slump forward to rest his elbows on his knees without falling over entirely.

"Thavron called you Randír when he spoke of your fever breaking in the night." Alagosiell is watching him with a mix of curiosity and concern. "Is that not your name?"

"It is the name I asked that he use, though I do not think it was my name before." If it were, Randír will be surprised it came back to him without the knowledge it's his own. "Perhaps I shall recall the one I once bore after the knock to my head heals."

"I will hope you do, though I shall call you Randír until you say otherwise. Since it is not one my brother gave to you." Alagosiell smiles a moment, and shrugs, before looking over at Thavron. "I shall tend the fire if you care for your own bath, brother."

Thavron shrugs himself, making a brief gesture that Randír cannot interpret, though it does not appear to be rude, at least. "I would rather see if it might be possible to get Randír to his feet, to see to his bathing. There has been little enough chance to do so, and I would imagine he would like to wash away the fever-sweat." He meets Randír's gaze steadily. "If that meets with your approval."

To be clean would feel good - and it would help him to recover from the wounds faster to feel as if he is able to do some small things. Especially since he can feel the itch of grime beneath the bandages that swathe him at shoulder and hip. Bandages that will have to be removed before he bathes.

"What of my wounds?"

"We may check them after, and rebandage them then." Alagosiell is pulling a pack closer to her, opening it to look for something. "And if they cause you trouble, that is why Thavron will aid you, so there is less risk of injuring yourself further if you are unsteady upon your feet."

Randír is not certain he will even be able to get to his feet, but he nods regardless, picking at the knot that holds the bandage at his hip. He hoped he might inspect them himself before bathing, perhaps dragging a memory of how they were gained from the darkness that still shrouds his mind.

"Here." Thavron comes, untying the bandage, and carefully unwrapping the strips. They are dropped into a second pot which sits nearby, full of water. The folded wad of linen that had been held on the wound follows, mottled in green and yellow, though more of the former than the latter. Beneath, the wound is deeply pink, and stings at the touch of air; it will be worse once water touches it, Randír thinks.

The process is repeated with his shoulder, and though he cannot see that one quite as well, he thinks it looks somewhat better than the one at his hip. Certainly the bandages are more green with herbal poultice than the ones from his hip, and less mottled with yellow.

After, he finds himself leaning heavily on Thavron, barely more than carried down to the edge of the lake, clumsily removing his boots before taking the few more steps it requires to sit in the shallowest water of the lake. The sensation of being watched the entire time, and not merely by Thavron, is disconcerting, and he doesn't dare turn to see the expression on Alagosiell's face once his trews are stripped - at least they had not needed to cut those free as they had his tunic.

He doesn't think she watches him the entire time, but more than once as he's doing his best to wash - Thavron does more, scrubbing when his strength fails him, and pouring water over his head - he feels her gaze on his back. Once he is clean, Thavron wraps him in a cloak before he is entirely turned, and is not yet out of the water completely. Protecting his sister or simply refusing to allow her to indulge her curiosity, Randír isn't certain he can puzzle out, or cares to know.

Thavron helps him to dress, though his aid is mostly in keeping Randír on his feet and concealed by the cloak until he once more is clad in trews, then settles him where he had been near the fire. "I will leave you to tend his wounds, sister mine, while I have a chance to bathe." Thavron pauses, and gives Alagosiell a look Randír cannot interpret, before adding something in a language he doesn't know.

It makes Alagosiell laugh, and grin, despite the glare it earns her from Thavron as he gathers a few items for his bath. "I'm not Tuilinn, Thavron, or we wouldn't be here."

Whatever Thavron says to that, is makes Alagosiell's grin fade, and she gestures sharply, a clear dismissal, as Thavron bows with every line of his body tense as he stomps up the beach toward a part of the lake more distant than where Randír'd had his bath.

"Who is Tuilinn, that she seems to cause Thavron such annoyance?"

Alagosiell gives him a brief smile, and shakes her head. "It is nothing important; merely a disagreement between siblings, as always. Let me see those wounds, so we might be sure they're healing, and bandage them once more."

* * *

Once Randír's wounds are bandaged once more, Alagosiell watches him out of the corner of her eye as she searches her pack, hoping for one more of the pouches of grain and dried berries that she'd been trying to use sparingly, since they can only carry so many. She smiles to herself when her fingers close around the familiar shape of a oil-skin pouch, drawing it out to dump the contents into the pot with boiling water, drawing it from the heart of the flames to the edge so she doesn't burn the grains.

"What is in there?" Randír has been watching her in turn, and glances down at the pot where the berries are almost dissolving into the water as the grains cook. It will be a while yet before it's ready, but even from the first, the scent that rises is one that reminds Alagosiell of home.

"A porridge mix that is used by travelers from home. The last of it, I think, so more of our food will be what your companions left and what we might hunt or fish until we reach somewhere we might purchase further supplies." Alagosiell frowns when a shadow crosses Randír's expression, something of a frown, but more something else. "What causes you worry, friend?"

"Truth, I am uncertain." Randír shakes his head slightly. "Where do you intend to travel from here?"

Alagosiell is silent a moment, fishing a spoon from her pack to stir the grains while she turns the question over in her mind. If they continue, she doesn't know when or where they might find anyone from whom they might purchase further supplies. Yet, if they turn back, they must hope there is enough game and new-sprung plants to sustain them until they reach the inland sea, for there is no settled people in the space between.

Either way, it would be a difficult journey with Randír injured, and neither she nor Thavron any more greatly skilled with weapons or healing then they had been traveling west.

"I am not yet certain, and for now I think it is best not to travel, in any direction. You are still injured, and it would be foolishness to insist you must either travel or be left alone." Alagosiell smiles at Randír, though it seems not to lift the trouble from his shoulders. "There is a lake here from which we might fish, and woods were we can search for plants and game. We may remain here until you are sufficiently healed to travel, whether you chose to accompany us or no."

"It is where you might travel that will make my decision, I think." Randír is staring at the porridge, his brow still furrowed. "There is something in me that causes a dread, and I do not know why or what it might be."

"Worry about it later, then, when your wounds are better healed, and perhaps your memories may be less fractured. Unless it is perhaps by staying still that whatever you dread might become more than a shadow on your mind?"

"I do not know." Randír's frustration is audible, and Alagosiell raises her hands in a gesture for peace. She doesn't want to agitate him too badly, and risk him perhaps trying to leave when he is as yet unable.

"Then we shall not worry." She stirs the porridge, breathing in the familiar scent. She will be glad to return home, where she is not constantly surrounded by smells both familiar and strange at once, and where the flavors of the food are not that of the fire or of herbs and spices in combinations that would not be used at home.

Silence falls between them, and even with Thavron's return from his own bathing it remains a blanket on their camp. She fills their two bowls with portions of the porridge, keeping the remainder in the pot for herself. It is enough, for now, and there will be food enough while they rest here. The journey back across the nearly barren lands that had lain before the river will be a worry, but one that might wait some few days.


	5. Memories and Relations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir escapes the celebration of his return that the feast has become, and has a chance to talk more with Faramir about who he has become, and what he has forgotten. Alagosiell takes the opportunity to talk to Éowyn about a giving of gifts long overdue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been three years since I finished the last revision of a chapter and updated the story. I'm hoping it won't take me that long to get the next one finished.

**9 Fourth Age, October  
Minas Tirith**

Faramir stops beside his brother where Randír is looking out over Minas Tirith from the edge of the great dike of stone, looking himself past the city toward the Pelannor, and the Anduin and Ithilien beyond even though they are beyond his sight with the moon but a bare sliver in the sky. Behind them, the celebration of Randír's return that the welcome for the embassy had become continues, without any outward sign that anyone had noticed either of them missing.

"I didn't remember you until we were near the inland sea - the Sea of Rhûn - and we came across a young man protecting his younger sister." Randír's voice is quiet, just loud enough to be heard over the sounds from behind them, and held a note of raw pain. "I have never recalled our parents, nor any other relations we might have."

Drawing in a quiet breath, Faramir looks away from the night-shrouded lands to study his brother, the familiar profile turned into one that seems almost a stranger, between the flickering torchlight and the expression that his brother wore. "Our mother was Finduilas of Dol Amroth, a princess of the southern coast. Our father was Denethor, son of Ecthelion, ruling Steward of Gondor. Our father had three sisters, though none still live, and our mother had a brother, Imrahil, who is the Prince of Dol Amroth."

"The prince who was watching me most closely of those gathered for the welcome of our embassy." Randír keeps his gaze on the unseen beyond the night, his voice still quiet - they both are trying to prevent their conversation from carrying, as there are few who know that Randír is truly not the same man as Boromir had been for certain, and none of those is entirely certain of the extent of the damage done to his memory.

"Yes. He was very close to our mother, and he often insisted that we be given chances to spend time at Dol Amroth, though our father didn't care for it." Faramir falls silent a moment, thinking about what else he could tell Randír of their kin. "I remember the love between our parents, if dimly. Father was never one to show his affection easily, though, and it was harder as we grew older for him to do so. Our mother, I think, loved more openly, before she died."

For a long moment, Randír doesn't speak, and when he does, his voice is steady, regardless of the pain that roughens it somewhat. "How old were we?"

"You had seen ten years, and most of eleven, I had seen a few months more than five." Faramir pauses before he reaches out to rest a hand on Randír's shoulder for a long moment. "Uncle Imrahil remembers our mother more than I, if you want to know more of her."

"And of our father?" Randír looks at him now, rather than the city, his brow furrowed with a faint frown. "He would be Steward if he were alive, so I know he is not, and if he had died before my too-close brush with the same, I would be Steward, and never have met Alagosiell. What happened to him?"

Faramir cannot look at Randír now, looking away out over the city. He knows his face is as a carven mask, still and calm, but otherwise showing nothing, as he still is uncertain how he feels about their father after these long years. It's nearly as long as he'd wondered what happened to his brother, and he does not expect the pain that still cuts into him - yet he feels again the strange relief that his father's shadow no longer fell over either him or his brother.

"Your horn came down the Anduin, split in two. I could not imagine what might make you discard it, even broken, but it was all that came from the river - no funeral boat, no body, nothing yielded up by the waters this far south, nor when we had searched further north after the war had passed. Our father thought differently, convinced that you had fallen, died fighting the Shadow, and he would listen to no words of hope that perhaps you were not. Mother's death had made him grim, or so I have been told, as I recall less of him from before her death than of her; when he thought you were dead, he fell into despair, and could not be comforted."

Faramir draws in a breath, pushing away the tangled ball of fear, grief, and morbid fascination he has long felt over the last days of Denethor's life. He cannot let himself waver when he speaks even of that.

"The last I recall of him, before I rode to aid those who kept the Rammas Echor for as long as it could be held against the Enemy, he was harsh, but not entirely lost to reason."

"And alive."

"Yes." Faramir steps closer to the wall that edges the long pier of rock, turning so he can look toward Mindolluin and the Rath Dínen. Silent as he thinks over the last of Denethor's life, and his passing, which he could not recall himself. "I was told he had a pyre constructed for himself and for me while I lay ill and unaware. Though I was rescued from it, he would not allow himself to be." His voice is a bare whisper that he could barely hear himself, and isn't actually certain Randír has, even though his brother has moved to stand beside him.

A warm hand on his shoulder, as he had rested his hand on Randír's earlier, surprises him, and he looks at Randír once more. There is something he can read as grief in his brother's face, if perhaps more for having brought up such a dark memory for Faramir than for the death of Denethor. Or perhaps something of a stranger's sharing of loss for the death of a father or the Steward, rather than a son or brother's shared grief, for how could Randír feel the same sorrow for a father he cannot recall?

Faramir feels some guilt for thinking that, something that holds a bitterness that he dislikes feeling. "He would have been wounded that you did not remember him, if he had lived," he says instead of anything that would give voice to his guilt over his own thoughts. His voice at least is louder now, if not much, and less choked. "You were ever his favorite of us."

Guilt he might feel, but he cannot feel grieved that Randír remembers him and does not recall their father. For all that Boromir had tried to be the son that Denethor was proud of, he'd always had time for his younger brother, always done everything he could to make sure Faramir was protected as a child, and loved. It clearly had remained, despite all that had taken memory away from his brother, and made Randír from Boromir.

"Perhaps then it is as well he did not live to see me return to Minas Tirith." Randír sounds as if he is trying for a light tone, and is falling short of it, and his hand tightens briefly on Faramir's shoulder before he lets go. Giving Faramir room to move away if he cares to.

And Faramir cannot help but think Randír is right, for he cannot bring himself to imagine the reunion between the grieving, harsh man Denethor had become at the death of his most beloved son, and the half-stranger of Randír who Faramir cannot entirely think of as Boromir.

Turning from the wall and its view, Faramir watches his brother for a long moment. "Tell me of the family you've found?"

He should know of the man his brother is now, and those who he surrounds himself with; it will better allow him to see Randír as his brother, rather than a stranger wrapped up in the tattered remnants of Boromir.

Randír looks over Faramir's face for a moment before he nods, turning to find a bench to settle upon, a smile on his face that looks for all the world like the brother Faramir remembers.

"There are five of the royal siblings, and any number of cousins, as well as the queen and the king." Randír glances toward the hall, his smile softening. "I think sometimes it is a wonder that they have all managed to survive this long without awakening a desire to kill each other in their hearts, they argue so much."

Faramir listens as Randír tells of Alagosiell and her brothers and sisters, building images in his mind of them from what Randír choses to tell, and what he clearly does not. Thavron, who'd traveled with Alagosiell on her journey into the west when she had met Randír, and taken him east with them. Lanthir, her first sister, whose eldest son is nearly three years older than Annûnion, and who hadn't agreed to marry her husband until she'd borne a daughter. Tuilinn, the second sister, who is more butterfly than swallow, her affections as fickle and fleeting as the lives of such creatures. And Medlin, the youngest of them, tall and broad as Randír, and with a gentle nature that belied his name.

"Their father is Idhren, who is a general as skilled and shrewd as any captain I can recall." Randír's voice is slightly ragged by now, though still infused with all the warmth that had accompanied his generous descriptions of his new family. "I have learned more than I have forgotten from him since I went east, though he has told me he has learned from me as well. Our foes have been different, though, so it is little wonder we have both taken some new knowledge from our councils."

He falls silent then, swallowing against what must surely be a dry throat, and Faramir wishes he'd remembered to bring wine with him. He waits a long moment before prompting, "And their mother?"

"Her Most Gracious and Serene Majesty, Queen Rhawsûl. As impossible to tell her no as one might tell a tempest to cease, if one is not among her closest circle. She has ever turned her eyes outward from their home, rebuilding decaying networks of roads and trade. It is her influence I think most pushed Alagosiell to look to the west for a husband. Too, she was the first to truly welcome me into my new home, beyond Alagosiell, and I think without her interrogations on what Gondor was like, I should not recall as much as I do."

Randír had not spoken of the others with such reverence, nor used their titles, as if they were truly close kin, and Rhawsûl, perhaps, was someone more distant, for all the welcome he told of. Someone who he held in great respect, and perhaps some little fear, as Faramir is uncertain what Randír's expression holds in the half-dark of torchlight and night, so far from the hall.

The sound of footsteps coming closer keeps Faramir from asking now why, and a moment later, Aragorn comes into the nearest circle of torchlight, a pipe and pipeweed in one hand, a flagon in the other that is a welcome sight.

"Might I join you in escaping the close confines of the celebration inside?" That Aragorn as well as been able to escape without notice makes Faramir wonder just how focused the nobles present tonight are on Alagosiell - and likely Queen Arwen, and perhaps Éowyn as well.

"You may." There is a hesitation after the words, as if Randír is caught between one form of address and another, before he relaxes again, a small smile on his face. "I do not begrudge the company."

"Nor the smoke?" Aragorn settles on the ground, waving aside the frown it brings to Randír's face as he leans back against the wall. It is a habit that Faramir has become accustomed to; Aragorn is taking the chance while his court is distracted to be merely himself, and not King Elessar.

"I do not think I shall mind, though I cannot recall the name of what it is that those of the west smoke." Randír smiles wryly a moment, though there is a tension across his shoulders that Faramir cannot place the reason for. "Merry and Pippin were both fond of a pipe, as I remember."

"All four of the hobbits were." Aragorn packs his pipe with familiar ease, and lights it carefully, all three silent as he does so.

"I cannot recall more than Merry and Pippin of the hobbits, and I doubt I ever shall do so. Indeed, I can only recall traveling with seven, no matter how I try to draw memories forth from the darkness that shrouds them." Randír glances away a moment, his expression rueful. "I think I recall the pack-horse better than I might recall the other two hobbits you say were on the journey - certainly I cannot recall any of us tending to it while we had it."

Aragorn nods, and after a moment, offers the flagon to Randír, who takes it with a bit of a smile that swiftly fades into a more troubled expression as he takes a sip from it. "It is only in my dreams, perhaps, that I might remember more, and those tatter as I wake, and slip through my fingers like melting ice. Nightmares that fade when I put sweet-leaf on the brazier to perfume the air at night."

"Sweet-leaf?" Faramir raises an eyebrow, accepting the flagon when it is passed to him that he might sip of the rich wine it holds. He is curious about the unfamiliar herb - or unfamiliar name for an herb, perhaps - and if it might be useful if they might negotiate for some to be traded.

"An herb that grows all across the lands, even in the coldest places and to the west of the mountains, nearly a weed. The smell of it is refreshing, and reminds me of spring. The healers use it to soothe nightmares and otherwise troubled sleep, and to scent the linens in their Houses, as it seems to speed the healing of their patients when their minds are set at ease." Randír pauses, his frown deepening a moment. "Alagosiell said they'd found it among the trees of Amon Hen, as well, and used it to help calm me enough to dose me with a draught to combat the wound-fever."

Aragorn takes a draw on his pipe as he watches Randír. "Would you recognize it if you saw it here?"

"Yes. We brought some with us, as well, though there's little left." Randír tensed a little again before he stands, moving behind the bench to sink to the ground and lean against the wall as Aragorn is doing. It seems to allow him to relax, and Faramir wonders if perhaps the tension had been that Randír has become more aware of relative rank than Boromir ever seemed to care. "I saved some little that I might ask the healers here if they might provide me with more. I would not care to wake all with my nightmares, should they become a burden again as they have been in the past."

Faramir joins the other two on the ground while Randír speaks, leaning against the bench instead so they might keep the conversation close. It is good to know the nightmares Randír has had before have waned, though Faramir wonders what they might have contained, and worries that they had been so intense as to cause trouble.

"I should like to see it before you go to the Houses of Healing with it. I might be able to tell you what it is myself." Aragorn takes another puff of his pipe. "And if it is what I think it might be, there is more use of it than merely a balm against troubled sleep."

Randír shrugs easily. "If it is, than it shall be a welcome piece of lore to take home to the healers there. They will welcome the new knowledge."

The reference to a place not Gondor as home makes Faramir blink, a reminder that however much of Boromir remains in Randír, however much he is still Faramir's brother, he is as much a stranger as well. For Boromir, no matter how far he had traveled, or how long he had remained away, would always speak of Minas Tirith at home, of that much Faramir is certain.

"If you would join me for dinner tomorrow - you and Alagosiell both, if you are able to - you might bring it with you then." Aragorn has a thoughtful frown on his face, as if he too has noticed that Randír speaks of somewhere else as home where Boromir would not have, or perhaps it is for the question of the herb Randír has named as sweet-leaf.

"I shall speak with Alagosiell about such, though I think she had in mind to ask to join Lady Éowyn and Faramir for dinner." Randír shrugs, amusement glinting in his eyes as he glances at Faramir. "She would present gifts to you directly, save that tradition says they must be distributed to kin by the closest female kin."

"Gifts?" Faramir is startled, both by the cryptic remark about traditions and female kin, and by the idea there are more gifts to be had than those brought out earlier in the evening. Certainly he had thought any gifts for the Steward would have been given then. "Dare I ask, too, what traditions?"

"A wedding tradition of the Mallenrim, that a bride gives gifts to the mother or eldest sister of her husband, to be given to kin as that worthy decides." Randír meets Faramir's gaze easily, the amusement still present. "Other arrangements may be made if there are no close kin who are suitable for such, though you shall have to ask her for more of the tradition. She would not tell me, saying only that these gifts are a matter for women, as all such traditions are."

Nor would it be certain she would tell Faramir, though it is certainly possible she might speak of it with Éowyn - Faramir hopes it is so, as he doesn't know what might be best for a female relative. All their aunts are buried, their mother's sister in Dol Amroth, and their father's sisters in the Rath Dínen.

"For all I am curious, I shall avoid asking what she does not offer to share." Faramir tilts his head to Randír before leaning his head back against the bench. Companionable silence draws around them, the flagon passed around, and smoke from Aragorn's pipe scenting the air.

* * *

Alagosiell keeps a polite smile on her face, and impolite words behind her teeth as yet another of the women of the court asks her how she had met Boromir. So far, redirecting conversations to more polite topics had not worked, nor had passing them off to others with excuses of dancing or a need for drink. She understands that here, women do not have the gift of such visions to guide them to those who would be the best of husbands for them, but she would have thought her clear desire not to speak of it would stop them from trying to pry into the matter.

Drawing a breath, she speaks when the woman gives her an expectant look, her smile never altering. "Your questions do not merely border on rudeness, but are considered a matter that no properly raised woman of the Mallenrim would dare to bring up in public, even with those of her own kin. It is the height of rudeness, indeed, to ask it of a stranger."

The woman is staring now, and Alagosiell refrains from pointing out her further rudeness, only giving her a chilly smile before she moves away, searching the crowd for a familiar face. Sinia is currently speaking with a man who bears a strong resemblance to both Randír and to Faramir, and Alagosiell is reluctant to disrupt her herald in whatever he is planning - he has so far served them well in this land, and he will be the best at ferreting out what information they need to send a proper ambassador who might remain here and be heard.

Randír seems to be missing altogether, though it surprises her little that he has escaped from the crowd. The lack of either Steward or King does surprise her, but she lets that pass as perhaps something fundamentally different between the court of her mother and the court here.

Éowyn is standing all but alone, only the golden-haired legend for a conversation partner. It is perhaps the most ideal time to approach her on the matter that Alagosiell has long been frustrated by. Ten years is a long time to wait upon a bride's gifts, but long waits are not entirely unheard of when a husband has come from kin outside the lands of Gaearon Rhûnen.

"Princess Éowyn." The title feels somewhat strange in her mouth, a distinction from the title of a man of the same rank, but it is how they speak in the West. "Lord Glorfindel."

"Prince Alagosiell." Éowyn smiles, though the expression is faintly puzzled, as if she is yet trying to untangle some riddle about Alagosiell. Or perhaps it is the same strangeness of title that Alagosiell herself feels.

The elf does not do more than nod his head in greeting, though he looks more amused, as he seems to perpetually be. Whatever he is thinking, it is harder to guess than even Éowyn.

"I had not the chance to speak with you before, though I do wish I had not so many other things to stand in the way of doing so." Alagosiell would have spoken to Éowyn as the one who could speak in the name of the king if she had not already known it would be the men who held power in nearly all things in the west. She finds it as strange as the distinction of title.

Éowyn's lips curl up in a smile that makes her eyes brighter, though she does not actually laugh. "I take no offense in that, Prince Alagosiell, for I suspect if you had taken such time, Faramir would have coaxed Randír to speak, and I do understand the fear that he would be recognized by those who once knew him if he did." She pauses, her smile fading some as she studies Alagosiell. "Once I too had to take such caution, that I not be known for who I was and be sent home for it."

Alagosiell blinks, both surprised and not. "Would it be rude to ask how such a thing came to pass?"

"No, though I do not care to think too much on it now. Those were dark days, and I wished nothing but to follow my kin into the death I thought we all rode to." There is a heaviness to her words that makes Alagosiell drop her eyes in respect to the loss that must have driven her to such a thing. For a woman to ride into battle is something she cannot imagine for herself or her close kin, no matter that she knows it is not unheard of along their southern border. For a Prince as Éowyn would be thought of to need to do such a thing, the pressure in the West must have been great indeed.

The silence that falls between them is broken by the quiet shift of Glorfindel, drawing Alagosiell's attention to him. His earlier amusement seems to have been set aside, at least for now, though she can't help but think it might return as easily as it has gone.

"I shall leave you to what conversation has drawn you here, Princes." Glorfindel bows, though Alagosiell is glad it is only as much as an equal might, before slipping away through the court in the general direction of the Queen.

"He sees more than he speaks of." Éowyn is watching Glorfindel for a moment, before she turns her attention back to Alagosiell. "You didn't come to ask about the past."

"Yes, and no." Alagosiell tilts her head slightly before she looks out over the room, seeking a place that would be easier to speak without being overheard. "What I had hoped to speak to you about does concern the past, but is not a matter of politics or diplomacy. More it is something that is to be spoken of with some modicum of privacy, if that might be achieved in this place."

"Not in here." Éowyn turns toward the closer line of columns, glancing briefly at Alagosiell before she leads her through to a smaller door hidden in the corner of the hall behind the columns. Through a narrow corridor, and out another small door, Éowyn leads her to a quiet corner of garden, where there is only the stars overhead to provide light.

"Perhaps more quiet than you intend, Prince Alagosiell, but it is unlikely there will be any to interrupt in this garden."

Alagosiell chuckles softly, moving away from the door enough that she will not be heard from the other side of it. "And none to overhear, though that is less a worry." She tilts her head back to look up at the stars, picking out familiar patterns among them. The great sickle, the fisher's boat, the war-horse. "Do those who wed in the west exchange gifts when they make their oaths to each other?"

"Often there are gifts exchanged between the families." Éowyn comes closer, standing where they will not have to raise their voices to hear each other. "Sometimes there are smaller gifts given between betrothed."

"Mm." Alagosiell smiles, looking away from the stars to study what she can see of the garden. "It is the two who come to the circle who give gifts to the kin of their betrothed, in the east. A man to assure his new wife's kin he can protect her, a woman to her new husband's kin to show she can provide."

"And you have not given such gifts to Randír's family." Éowyn sounds both confused and curious. "Why speak to me, when there are others who are closer kin to him?"

Letting out a quiet sigh, Alagosiell shrugs, the heavy silk of her robes hissing softly as she moves. "They are none of them women, that I have seen, and such gifts are always given to mothers or sisters." She looks over at Éowyn, twisting her lips in a wry smile. "I find myself glad to know the traditions of the West that a woman is wed into her husband's family mean there is at least one woman who Randír can call kin."

Éowyn returns her smile with one of her own, the scant moonlight and pale starlight enough to make out her expression. "Should I ask what these gifts are, or if there is any particular ceremony in the giving of them?"

"If I had made an effort sooner to see the gifts given, perhaps, but it has been long enough, and far enough to travel, that I do doubt any of the familiar words and gestures of gift-giving shall do ought but fall flat." Alagosiell looks for a bench, and finding none, settles herself on the ground instead, beckoning Éowyn to join her. "They are gifts of land and sea, of those things which are the domain of women at home. I would have brought a ship, if I had been less uncertain of our welcome."

Éowyn arranges her skirts neatly about her, a startled laugh escaping her. "I would not know what to do with a ship, save to pass it along to Prince Imrahil."

"Randír's uncle, of his mother's kin?" Alagosiell nods to herself when Éowyn confirms it. "I can send Sinia with word to send such a gift for him, if you think it a gift that would be welcome."

"I would ask him before doing so." Éowyn shakes her head, a small smile on her face. "Though I think he might be interested in seeing how your ships are built, as they are unlike those of Dol Amroth or of Umbar."

"They once came from the same designs, I think, sailing from Númenor, though ours have been shaped by the Falathren's own, and by the moods of the eastern seas we most sail. Made to take cargo from all along the shores from the mouths of the Helegsîr to the southernmost ports of Harad, and weather the storms that are found in the warmest waters where the Nadhgëar meets the Eastern Sea."

"It is little wonder they are so massive, then." Éowyn blinks, looking away a moment. "What gifts are among those you have brought?"

"Some in similar vein to those given to the High King, spices and fabric and books. Tapestries and carpets to grace your home. Hunters, though they are more traditionally the realm of men, to be given by a man to his wife's kin."

Randír had been unfamiliar with the hunters kept in the royal stables - and indeed, in many of the stables of the great Princes - when he first saw them, and Alagosiell had thought such an unusual gift might be appreciated when she had left the giving so long. More than hounds that might be better known, or vermin-chasers.

"Great cats, such as you would see in the courts of Harad, the pride of any Prince." Alagosiell speaks before Éowyn can voice a question about what she means. "They are faster than any hound, though they tire quickly, and must be taken to the hunt upon the backs of horses."

"And your horses allow this?" Éowyn leans forward, elbows resting against her thighs as she watches Alagosiell with curiosity lighting her face. "Or are they not large enough to be a danger to horses?"

"They are raised in the same stables, that the horses do not shy away from the hunters, nor the hunters think that the horses are as their prey - most often they hunt gazelles and deer upon open grass." Alagosiell smiles as she thinks of the hunts she had followed in the wake of her father, no matter that she had been running from lessons she needed to attend to. It had not harmed her, and it let her follow along with Randír's hunts even now. "I shall be glad to show you them tomorrow, while Sinia and Golwe do their work to prepare the offered embassy house."

Éowyn tilts her head graciously. "I would enjoy that."

* * *

Randír keeps his eyes closed as he drifts out of sleep, listening to the quiet of thick-walled rooms, with only faint bird-song from the window which overlooks a garden to break the silence. He can feel the light tickle of fingers tracing over the scars on his chest, and reaches to catch Alagosiell's hand with one of his, rubbing his thumb over the familiar calluses of her palm. "Did you speak with Princess Éowyn as you had hoped last night?" He pulls her hand up to press a gentle kiss against her fingertips as he opens his eyes. "Or shall I tell King Elessar that he may expect both of us at dinner this evening?"

"I spoke with her." Alagosiell smiles, tugging her hand free of his to press her hand against his cheek. "I will be late to meet with her if I linger much longer, but I would see your smile before I leave."

Chuckling, Randír returns her smile with his own, the sheet sliding to pool at his hips as he sits up. Reaching out, he cups Alagosiell's face in his hands, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to her lips. "Are you going alone, or shall I have both our children to take about the city, and see how much of it I can recall?"

"Neither is awake as yet, so you've a little time yet to enjoy the silence." Alagosiell straightens, tugging at the hem of her tunic so it lays as she wants it to. "And take Ereg with you if you're intent on wandering. It will do him good not to fret about you all day." She turns, her lips twisting in a grimace as she looks at the robe hanging from a hook on the wall, waiting for her to don it as she might at home. "I did ask if I might dine with Éowyn and the Steward this evening, and she agreed it would be good to do so, if we are not all to be at dinner in the main hall, as is the wont here."

"I shall send Ereg or Gannel to find out before I go out today, then."

Randír turns, setting his feet on the chill stone of the floor. A fleeting memory of another stone floor crosses his mind before he shakes it away, nothing more than a fragment which brings nothing new with it. The floors at home are layered in carpets enough to turn away any chill - and indeed, there are carpets here, too, if fewer, and none beneath his feet now.

"King Elessar wants to examine the sweet-leaf we brought with us, to see if he might tell me what it is called here." That he cannot recall the name of a simple herb is irritating, but as with the rest of his memory, something beyond the ability of any healer to restore by any means save re-learning what is lost. "There may be more uses known of it in the West than we have at home."

"Any use they know of it that we do not will be received well by the healers." Alagosiell smiles again, stepping away when he reaches for her, though she ignores the robe still hanging in rich blue folds. "I must go, or I shall be later than I already am."

Randír laughs, catching her hand to press another kiss against her palm before she goes, leaving the door open slightly as she does, so he can listen to the sounds from the outer room. Sinia greets her, and Randír can hear the familiar, light footsteps of the body-guard he'd chosen for this journey as they move away through the main room. She will be safe in their company, and he nods to himself before standing.

Shirt and trews are enough for the privacy of their rooms, though he pulls one of the deep blue silk tunics from his clothing chest, a small smile quirking his lips at the small chore he would not do at home. His robe - summer weight for home, and perhaps a little heavy for the weather here - hangs beside Alagosiell's, the lighter blue chased with silver and embroidered with the familiar peaks of the Orocarni.

Leaving the tunic laid out on the bed, he goes to see what breakfast has been provided, smiling when he sees the generous board laid on the table to one side. Pears, apples, and bread share space with cold chicken and a covered pot that is nearly hot to the touch, and holds a steaming mix of mashed grains mixed with apples and honey by the scent that meets his nose. Altogether a smell that brings to mind home, more so than the rest of the food laid out.

"Ada!" Duineniell comes racing from the arch that leads deeper into the suite, a bright smile on her face as she flings herself into his arms, and laughing when he swings her into the air.

"How is my little prince this morning?" Randír settles her against his hip, Duineniell wrapping her arms around his neck. "Sannith told us you didn't want to go to bed until we returned."

"You and naneth are never gone that long unless you go away, and I don't like it when you go away." Duineniell leans her head against his shoulder, poking his cheek with one small finger. "You didn't come back at all."

"You were asleep when we were able to return." Randír taps her nose, making her giggle. "Shall we eat breakfast before your brother is awake?"

"Yes." Duineniell wiggles to be let down, climbing up into one of the chairs on her own with a frown of concentration, standing on it so she can look over the table. "I want one of those, ada." She points at the pears, smiling at him hopefully.

"Porridge first, little one." Randír checks the pitchers on the table, finding one with cold cream in it to add to the hot porridge, mixing a small bowl for her, and a larger one for himself.

Duineniell pokes at the porridge, scooping up some with her fingers to taste it before she reaches for her spoon with a sticky hand. Happily making a mess as she eats, the pear forgotten for a moment, though Randír knows she'll repeat her request for one once the porridge is gone.

Peace reigns for a short while before a low curse comes from Randír and Alagosiell's room, followed swiftly by Ereg stalking out to glare at Randír as if all the faults he is about to mention are entirely his fault.

"Must I sleep at the foot of your bed to hear you rise in the morning?" Ereg picks up the pitcher of barley water before Randír can reach for it, pouring the goblet in front of him full, and the smaller wooden cup for Duineniell. "I did not hear you moving through the walls. They're far too thick here."

"You might sleep with the door opened between the rooms, then."

"I did!" Ereg shakes his head, picking up a knife, and reaching for the fruit to slice it. "You're very quiet when you don't want to be attended upon, tradition and expectations be damned."

Randír tilts his head in acknowledgment of that, picking up his goblet to sip at the barley water. It hasn't been sweetened like it might be at home, and he reaches for the honey to add a little to Duineniell's cup. "The people here don't expect the same kind of pageant as they do at home. I'm glad for the peace of it, at least for a little while."

"Then I shall hope we don't stay so long that you forget what is expected of you at the court at Tol Sáid." Ereg sets some slices of pear in front of Duineniell when she asks for them, adding a thin piece of chicken cut at Randír's direction. "Should I expect to be left here while you're busy today, then, or has Her Most Gracious Highness already given you instruction on that?"

"Alagosiell would prefer I had you accompany me today, as I want to explore the city. We will not be beginning to discuss any sort of trade or treaty today."

Ereg frowns a little, though he doesn't voice any complaint - all his grumbles over the journey had already been made, and are useless to repeat now. Born of no little fear, as his own knowledge of Gondor was from Rhûn and the Shadow-loyal clan of which his family had been a part before they were destroyed.

"Shall I have Hwiniol wake Lord Annûnion, then?" Ereg passes the plate with the rest of the fruit he's sliced and some more chicken to Randír, before beginning to slice some for Annûnion.

"Let him wake at his own pace. I need you to find out if we're expected to dine in the hall this evening, or if dinner is to be a more private affair. King Elessar has invited me to join him and his Queen for the meal, and Alagosiell heard tell most nights all gather in the hall to dine together."

"And for that, I shall have to speak to one who knows the mind of the king." Ereg gives Randír a sour look, finishing preparing the plate for Annûnion. "I shall see what I may do, and then I shall hope you leave me some little thing to do to help prepare for the day."

"I shall leave something undone, then, if you do not take too long about finding an answer for me." Randír keeps a smile from his face at Ereg's scowl through long practice, though he doubts Ereg fails to notice his amusement.

Annûnion comes out of his room while Ereg is gone, rubbing sleep from his eyes, with Hwiniol close behind him, though the servant only remains long enough to see his charge seated, and his meal laid out before he slips away again, likely to dine with the other servants while they leave the family to their meal.

"Are you meeting the High King again today, ada?" Annûnion pokes at the porridge that Hwiniol had fixed for him, eyes half shut as he contemplates it. Not quite awake enough to eat it yet.

"Only for dinner. Today we are to see the city, while your mother attends to business of her own." Randír smiles when Annûnion widens his eyes, blinking away sleep as best he can. "First, you must eat, and then let Hwiniol dress you properly for today."

"Is naneth going to be at dinner with us?" Duineniell is looking around the table, a small frown on her face, and Randír reaches for a cloth to help her wipe her hands. He'll mention the lack of washing bowls to Ereg, if he hasn't noticed already. Duineniell makes a face as he wipes the remains of porridge and pear juice off her hands, but doesn't complain.

"She's eating with Princess Éowyn and the Steward tonight, that she might discuss the gifts she brought for them, and others of my kin." Randír smiles a little when she pouts, using a clean corner of the cloth to wipe her face. "Should I send Sannith to find your mother and ask if you can accompany her for dinner tonight?"

"No." Duineniell jumps from her chair to his lap, trusting him to catch her if she falls short. "You said we were going to see the city, ada, and eat with you tonight."

"So I did." Randír smiles, and settles Duineniell in his lap while he finishes his own meal. Today promises to be a good day.


	6. Burnt, Barren Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the edge of the river, Boromir of Gondor is dead, a shattered sword and broken horn given to the river. Randír o Annûn walks away with his companions, a journey to the east where he might build a life that does not have a running undercurrent of dread and shame. He finds first a memory from the persistent void when they come to the Inland Sea and a scene of destruction.

**3019 Third Age, March-April  
Parth Galen, Brown Lands, the hills south of the Sea of Rhûn**

"If you think you can travel, I don't see why you should not. The wound looks to be healing, as best I can tell."

There's a quiet hiss from Randír, and Alagosiell looks up to see Thavron drawing his hand back from Randír's shoulder, reaching for the cleaned bandages. He'd done the same earlier for the gut wound, while Alagosiell keeps herself from hovering by dint of sorting the contents of their camp.

"Good." Randír waits patiently while Thavron finishes wrapping the shoulder wound again, a fresh poultice pressed against it to encourage it to continue to heal. The tunic he pulls over his head doesn't quite fit him, a little tight across the shoulders, and a little longer, but well enough for the travel they intend. "Which way do you travel?"

"Home." Alagosiell continues to add what she deems needed to the packs they'll have to carry once on the far side of the river again. Anything else will have to be granted to the river, and best in one of the boats to go over the falls, if Randír is to travel with them. It will be a regret to lose them, but they have no means to carry either back home.

She looks up at the silence after her response, to see Randír watching her, a small frown on his face. Confusion, she thinks, rather than pain from movement.

"Home is east from here, and north. We'll take the river upstream past the high banks, and from there across the wide plains to the Ered Tirith, past the gate at River's Cradle, and down Hîthduin to Tol Sáid." Alagosiell sits back on her heels to watch Randír's face. "Do you remember more that you might chose another path?"

Randír looks down, reaching for a belt to wrap around his hips, though a faint grimace crosses his face as he tightens it. "I remember only what I think was once my name, and that but this morning."

His continued lack of memory worries, and Alagosiell can only hope that a healer's touch might be enough to help. If indeed such healers might reside in the west, and have the knowledge that would be needed to heal such a wound, or if the healers of home are not too far away for them to do much but to soothe the scars of loss.

Reaching for the pile of clean bandages, working to finish her task almost without thought, Alagosiell tilts her head. "Will you share that name?"

"No." Randír shakes his head, getting to his feet so he can shake the sand from the cloak recovered from the boats for him. "It is the name of a man I do not know. I would wish to know more of who I was before I take it up again."

He fixes the cloak about his shoulders before crouching down to touch the horn Thavron had found near where he'd been, and brought down. Cloven in two, familiar in shape, but not in the decoration put upon it by the people of the west. "If, indeed, I do chose to take it up again. I do not know if I should like who I was."

"A man of courage and strength, to bring down as great a host of orcs as were scattered about where you fell." Alagosiell ties the first pack closed, giving Randír a long look. "All were cloven by sword, not brought down by arrows, hewn by ax, or smashed by club or stave." She reaches for the horn he has not taken up, and tucks it into the lightest pack. "Even if you had companions to aid you in the battle, that would still hold true, for there are none other fallen save the orcs."

"Yet when I turn my mind to where I might go from here, I find a great dread in any path. Less, perhaps, in following your eastern route home, but even that holds fear and shame that I cannot place a source for."

Pressing her lips together as she ties shut the light pack, Alagosiell doesn't let the words she'd like to escape pass her lips. It is not her place to scold those not here for instilling in Randír such a deep dread that it persists beyond loss of all knowledge.

"I would welcome your company on the journey home, though you have little certainty of yourself. Neither Thavron nor myself are skilled with arms, and to have someone trained as a warrior will be no little comfort passing through the plains where not all are friends to the Mallenrim."

Randír remains silent, though he stands once more, pacing a bit away to look to the south, where the river flows over a precipice in a roaring fall. Thinking it over, and Alagosiell can only hope he turns her quest to home, for though she has spoken of traveling home, if he choses to face his nameless dread, she will go with him. She will not end her Seeking in failure.

"Is the quest that brings you so far west from your home at an end?" Randír turns back to watch her, and Alagosiell lets a smile curl the corners of her mouth.

She pushes to her feet, leaving the packs be for the moment. "Only I can say when it is finished, wherever I might go from here. Certainly not until I return home, though even that does not carry the assurance that is at an end." Pausing, she shrugs in a show of unconcern. "If I must travel west again in my Seeking, I shall do so by the long sea-road, where all shall worry less."

Randír nods, and returns her smile with one of his own that lightens his expression - sore needed, Alagosiell thinks.

Thavron emerges from the trees, where he had been seeking out a few more herbs and what new growth might be used to provide them a meal before they set out on the river, and there is no more time for talking. Only for preparing boats, breaking the camp, and taking a meal before they set themselves on the river.

It's a hard paddle against the current at first, as it is in the swift waters that run under the bridges that connect Tol Sáid to the banks of the rivers that join around it, and Alagosiell only hopes they pass beyond the great figures at the northern end of the lake today. The other boat falls away behind them to be carried over the falls that send the river south, carrying away the detritus of their camp where it cannot be retrieved.

* * *

They are five long days on the river, making camp upon the shores as twilight falls, and on the water again as soon as the sun daws. Exhausting even for Randír, though the most strenuous task he takes on is the carrying of the oars through the portage around the rapids. As they come ashore in the gold and red light of sunset on the fifth day, he hopes the land - steep hilled and rocky, but without the great cliffs of before - is gentle enough they might break from the river to travel east.

He can do little more that evening than to sit before the fire, staring blankly at what had been included in his pack. Items that might have once meant something to the man he had been before his memory had been wiped all but clean. Some might still be useful - clothing, a knife, the shield that had been found with him, a few items that might have some trade value. Others are worse than relics, tied to memories that may remain forever buried.

Randír runs his fingers over the hilt of the broken sword and the pieces of the cloven horn, trying to dredge up some scrap of emotion, if he cannot have memory. As they have before, they leave him with nothing but a regret that they are broken. The blade might be used to make another, but that is all the use the items have.

"We must travel light across the sere lands between here and the Inland Sea, to travel swiftly." Alagosiell is leaning against the overturned boat, exhaustion showing as clearly on her face as Randír expects it does on his. "Food, weapons, healing herbs, a change of clothing, no more."

"Do we have enough food to carry us all to the Inland Sea?" Randír sets both the horn and the shards of sword aside to be discarded, though the rest he returns to his pack for now. He can chose what else to be rid of when they are preparing to break camp in the morning.

"If we ration it carefully enough." Thavron is sitting with his back to the broken hills, trusting them to keep watch in that direction as he watches the river. "The waybread left by your companions is a boon in that. I had not expected it to be as filling as it is."

"And water?" Randír doesn't think the skins they have will be enough for a long crossing, but he is unfamiliar with the lands they have to cross - would be, he thinks, even if he remembered more - and doesn't know what might be there to refill them.

"The clans who trade across the Great Plain have wells to keep their horses and herds watered. The water is sweet, and wells open to all." Alagosiell gives him a tired smile. "That, at least, we do not have to worry for, so long as none camp at any of the wells."

"If they do?" There is a wary niggle at the back of his mind, though it doesn't come with memory to tell him why he might worry about the people of the plain.

Thavron shrugs, his lips twitching in a sardonic smile. "We go without to the next well. This far west, I would think them all like to be Shadow-loyal, and it isn't worth the risk to enter the camps of those. Not right now, not with the mutterings that we heard coming west, of Mordor calling them to arms."

"We should divide some more of your pack between myself and Thavron, at least to the first well, the better to travel swiftly and reach it sooner." Alagosiell holds his gaze when Randír frowns at her. "Your wounds are still healing, and you were more greatly exhausted after the rapids than any other day we have passed on this river."

"I would not want to burden you further than I already have, and I would begin as I mean to go on." He will not deny that exhaustion tugs at his mind, and it will do the same to walk across the plain, no matter how flat it may be once beyond the hills. "My wounds heal well enough, and the journey may well be difficult enough without passing on the burden to you."

Thavron snorted, shaking his head. "It will be harder if you wear yourself too thin by burdening yourself too greatly. We have no injuries to slow us, and it will be easier to carry some part of supplies that shall dwindle regardless than it would be to carry you without horse or sledge to bear you upon."

Randír looks away, closing his eyes a moment. It would indeed be easier to distribute some of the contents of the pack than it would be to ask for aid to bear his own weight. No matter that it feeds his sense of shame, of failure that stubbornly clings. "I shall leave you to decide how to split it between you when the dawn comes." He looks back to them, and is glad of the gathering gloom that makes it hard to see their faces. It would strike a blow to see pity there. "I shall take a watch in the night, though, and will not fail to bear that part of the journey."

"I shall not turn away that help, so long as your wounds continue to heal." Alagosiell's voice is warm and cheerful, even with exhaustion threading through it. "The first watch, then, that you are at your best when we begin the day. I shall take second watch, and Thavron, you will take the third."

It suits, and Randír moves to settle against the boat, looking out into a lightless night, neither star nor moon to be seen. Listening, too, for the rustle of movement, that will be a better warning of danger. It feels familiar, as does judging when enough of the night has passed to wake Alagosiell, and roll himself in his cloak to sleep while she watches over them. Something that had been a great part of his life before, he thinks. Not a memory, but it is still something to hold onto.

Morning dawns drear and dimmer than Randír expects, and he looks at the clouds which obscure the sky. Dark and heavy, though the air does not have the wet promise of rain, but a dusty dryness that catches at the back of his throat.

"There is a darkness above the Land of the Great Shadow." Thavron is looking up as well, his head turned to the east and south. "It brooded in the distance there when we passed west, and I can only think it has spread." He turns, pointing up to the edges to the west, like fingers reaching out across the deep blue of the dawn sky. "See how it runs in long lines? Pushed along by high winds to grasp at the sky."

"How do you know this?"

"The Mallenrim came from the sea, and our wealth comes to us along the long roads over the wave. If you cannot read the wind and the weather, you will fail to bring home trade at best. Fail to come home at all, at worst." Thavron grimaces up at the clouds, shaking his head. "We will walk under the dim until it parts, if ever it does."

"It will part." Alagosiell is frowning at the clouds as well, drumming her fingers against her hip. "All clouds part, even the great storms that eat the horizon between home and the lands of the Eastern Gate. It may be days yet, but they shall part."

"If it leaves as great a swath of destruction as the great storms do, we shall need to travel even in the height of the day, and as deep into the night as we dare." Thavron shakes head, looking down from the clouds. "I'll split the burden of the pack between ours, sister, if you allow. The sooner we are on the road, the better for returning home."

Randír makes sure to keep out those things that he thinks best discarded, and he slips the knife on his belt, though it is little enough protection if they encounter trouble. The shield he slings across his back, the straps settling easily into place, as if he often would do such with it. Familiar weight, and a protection that makes the weight of it no matter.

The pack holds nothing when Thavron is done, though Randír still moves the shield to carry the pack - he will need it to take back what he might later, when his wounds no longer cause a worry.

"You still recall nothing but the name you will not share?" Alagosiell is nudging the small pile with a toe, a small frown on her face that smooths away when she looks up at him.

"Naught that I would call memory, only impressions of long watches and the familiar feel of my shield across my back." He would wish more, and hopes that there will be more in time, but for now, the frustration of trying to dredge more up is one he will forgo. "I am not the man who bore that name, and do not know when - if ever - I shall be him again."

"Then let us consign him to the river, and take from here a different name." She smiles, reaching out to clasp his shoulder a moment before turning to Thavron, gesturing to the boat. It takes them both to flip it once more, carrying it to the water. "Many people who come to our homeland from elsewhere do such a thing when they take oaths to our land and our people."

Randír crouches down long enough to gather up horn and sword and the clothes that do not quite fit, as if they might not truly be his. "Is there any particular ceremony to such a thing?"

"There is ceremony in everything, even in the preparation for war." Alagosiell shrugs. "How much there is depends on who is involved and if there is time for all the little elements of such a thing. The simplest of it is to bury or to burn what might represent who a person was, the speaking of the death of that person. The speaking of a new name, and the acknowledgement of that name, the greeting of the new person who stands where another has departed."

"Burned, or given to river or sea, more often than buried." Thavron is holding the prow of the boat steady, nodding his head at what Randír holds. "To cast aside a weapon, even one broken, is a rarity. Father did that, when he followed mother to Tol Sáid."

"Where is your father from, that he did so?" Randír piles everything into the bottom of the boat before he sets the shattered sword and cloven horn on top. Looking down at them for a long moment.

"We have never asked. Does it matter who he was? That man is dead, and Idhren was born where he stood, to become the father that mother knew he would be to us." Alagosiell stands at his shoulder, leaning against him a moment. "You are who you chose to be, not what the past might have been."

Randír closes his eyes a moment, drawing a deep breath. "Let Boromir be claimed by the Anduin, then. I am Randír, born of the west."

"Randír o Annûn." Alagosiell smiles as Thavron lets the boat go into the current. "Welcome, friend, and well-met. May the seas ever provide you with bounty, and the mountains shelter you from the Shadow."

* * *

Thavron is glad for his memory of where the wells they'd drawn water from on the way west, though there is one they skirt around, with horses stamping at the edges of a camp, and a great red banner hanging high near the well itself. It lets them travel swiftly despite Randír's unfamiliarity with the land, and the injuries that would slow him otherwise.

The clouds that shaded their journey when they left the river crowd the sky for weeks, though they break as they reach the first rolling hills that border the south of the rich lands nearest the the Inland Sea.

It slows them only a little, stopping in the middle of the day when the bright sun turns all the pale grass around them to a sea of glaring white-gold. Waiting for it to descend the western sky, and cast their shadows along their road.

Another week passes as they make their way through the hills to where the trader's enclave should be camping at the shore, where they can purchase supplies and horses to continue their journey. The silence as they come over the last ridge before the slope down to the sea is deafening, and Thavron can only stare at the destruction before them.

"We'll go north. We're not starving yet." Alagosiell is gray as the ash, one hand clenched in a fist at her side. It is all that speaks to her anger, and Thavron looks away from her to Randír.

His expression speaks more clearly of his dismay, though there is something more that Thavron cannot decide what name to put to it. If it is the same anger Alagosiell is leashing tightly, or the hollow that grief carves in Thavron's chest. Perhaps something else altogether.

"Must we travel on immediately, or have we time to stop and at least give these people some manner of rest?" Randír's voice is quiet and almost strangled, as if there is some memory struggling to surface and trapped just out of reach.

"They burn their dead. We do not have the time or the means to provide them the solace of ash upon the wind." Alagosiell turns away from the camp, looking away to the north and where their path will have to lie now, instead of to the swifter but unsettled south.

"We might provide a lament, at least, and a night's watch that they might not linger. That they know someone has seen and will remember what has been done here." Thavron waits until she meets his gaze, though the leashed anger and fear that he sees makes him flinch. "It would harm us none to take that much time."

"And if the Shadow-loyal who would cause this destruction return while we do that honor?" The fear is louder than the anger now, and Thavron wishes it weren't so. "You have never fought outside a practice ring, and I carry but a knife that I have not tested against a foe. Randír's wounds may have healed, but he has no weapon to fight with, and we do not know if his strength is all returned."

"If they come, we run. Hide if we must, until there is an escape. Kill, if we can and if there is no other means, but in the end, run. We're all well enough for that." Thavron crosses his arms, his gaze flicking to Randír a moment. "Randír has the right of it, that we should provide something for the dead. We have supplies enough to reach Dorwinion after, and the sea can provide food to supplement the waybread that remains."

"Only with the tools, which we do not have." Alagosiell lets out a sharp huff, her shoulders lowering a little as if she's setting aside some burden. "The night, perhaps, but no more than that. And not too close to the dead."

Thavron doesn't think she's doing it for his sake, not when her gaze darts to Randír, but if she is giving him some sway in her decisions, it is only fair. Randír doesn't know what the quest Alagosiell is on, or his own role in it, and is unlikely to know unless Alagosiell shares it with him. If she choses to do so.

"Of course not." He smiles at his sister, tilting his head back to the hills they've crossed to arrive here. "We'll set our watch on a suitable bit of ridge, and camp on the far side."

Let the land hide them from anyone who might return to the camp, and give them a chance to escape if Shadow-loyal do return.

* * *

Randír takes the third watch, in the loneliest hours of the night before dawn, as he has done more and more as their journey continues east. Something that feels right, to take the most dangerous watch, when orcs are hard pressed for time before the sun rise, and most men are more wont to sleep.

Their camp is in a string of tumbled boulders, and the watch kept from the height of one that allows them to see over the long slope down to the destroyed camp. In the dim starlight, he cannot see it, but Randír looks toward it anyway. Anyone who might come to disturb it will have to carry torches, and he will see those in the darkness.

Perhaps it is better he cannot see it, with memory flirting with the edges of his mind, a deeper sorrow that had been dredged up by seeing the destruction of it. A moment's overlay of shattered, scattered stone, the fleeting metallic scent of blood and the wet of water at his feet. It makes little sense, and he hopes that perhaps he might drag more of it to light as the night passes.

He gives up trying as the darkness fades into the pale, flat light just before the sun begins to paint the sky in brilliant banners. Watching the charred poles like fingers of bone as they become visible, though they hold his attention only for a short while. Movement catches his gaze instead, furtive at the edges of the burned camp.

Sliding down to the ground, he peers out again, seeing no movement. Waiting, and keeping watch for a long moment before he picks his way back down through the rocks to their camp to wake the others. Thavron blinks awake swiftly, and Randír keeps his voice low. "Movement in the remains of the camp we found."

The other man doesn't speak, just reaches to wake Alagosiell as Randír lifts his shield, tightening the straps as not to lose it easily. Their feet make little sound on the dusty ground, creeping just under the crest of the ridge to come as close as they can to the other camp. It as if they have spoken of this sort of thing often, and traveled together longer than their month and week across plain and through the lowest of the hills here.

Randír is just about to go over the ridge when he hears a single sob, swiftly caught back, break the silence. A young voice, high and sharp with grief and fear - a child, afraid and lost.

"Faramir." The name comes with memories that burst all unexpected across his mind, of a boy that he knows is younger than he is, bewildered and upset as he holds him close. The boy as a man, open in his grief as much as his joy, though it is shuttered away just as he turns. More of the same, flashes of emotion that he has no time to untangle.

"Randír. Randír!" How long Alagosiell has been calling his name, he doesn't know, only that there is worry and anger in her voice as he drags himself free of the memories. Above her, the sun has begun to paint the sky in streaks of red and gold, and he wonders just how long he had gotten lost in the surge of memories.

"Randír. Are you all right?"

"I have a brother." It is the first thing that comes to the front of his mind, and perhaps not properly an answer, but it is all he can be certain of right now. He smiles, though he tries not to reach for the memories that had overwhelmed him. They need to settle, and perhaps then he will be able to see what else he may of who his brother - Faramir - had been. Is still, he hopes, though he feels uneasy at the thought of returning west just to look for one person.

"That is well enough, though I shall hope not all your memories return in such a rush, when we are far from home and vulnerable. You could not even have defended yourself a moment ago, staring into nothing as you were." Alagosiell reaches out hesitantly, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Are you certain you are well?"

"As much as I can be." Randír looks around them, frowning. "Where is Thavron?"

"He went over the ridge, to see who was at the camp to disturb the dead." Alagosiell pauses. "A boy, not yet gangly with growth. He ran when he saw Thavron."

"A survivor, perhaps?" Randír pushes himself to his feet, his knees feeling sore where he'd fallen on them all unaware. "We should find him, if we can."

"I know. We can't leave a child behind." Alagosiell stays close as they cross over the ridge, where Thavron is standing next to one of the piles of ash that does little to hide a body. The boy's parent, perhaps, or another relative. "We should return to our camp, eat some of the waybread. Better to have a full belly to start your search."

"And we can hunt for something in these hills while search." Thavron studies Randír for a long moment. "Do you think you will have any trouble with it?"

"I will hope not to." Randír cannot be certain, but he thinks his memory has nothing more to yield for now, unless there is something that is as powerful an association as a child's overheard grief. "If there is, I will hope I have enough presence of mind to find a safe place to hide while it passes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter of rewrites after this, so hopefully before the end of the month. Then I have to go forward with just notes instead of a draft, so how long the next Third Age chapter is in coming, I have no idea and make no promises.


End file.
